


When Will My Husband Return From War? (Or the Quarantine Fic Challenge No One Asked For But Will Hopefully Keep Me From Going Guano - literally)

by Cerulea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU college student Stiles, Alive Hale Family, Alpha Derek, Appendicitis, Bisexuality, Broke-ass Stiles, Cora and Derek have sibling problems, Demisexual Derek Hale, Derek Hale & Isaac Lahey Friendship, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Don’t ask me which period..., Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Emissary in Training Stiles Stilinski, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Evolved Derek Hale, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fit Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Fox Stiles Stilinski, Hale Family Feels, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Mature Derek Hale, New Relationship, Period Piece, Peter and the sheriff might be in love?, Post-Canon, Secret Crush, Secretly rich Derek Hale, Self-Conscious Stiles Stilinski, So effing Romantic, Stiles looks like Mitch Rapp, Stoner Derek Hale, Tattoos, The Nemeton - Freeform, Tutor Stiles Stilinski, alive Alison argent, intimacy issues, sterek, stoned Stiles, tender moments, werewolf instincts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerulea/pseuds/Cerulea
Summary: A chapter-a-day challenge! A series of ficlets aimed at keeping me writing at least a little every day. Each chapter will be a stand-alone (unless there’s feedback requesting otherwise) and I am open to prompts and requests. Who knows how long this isolation will actually last, so this challenge is dauntingly open-ended.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 25
Kudos: 57





	1. DAY 1 - Tea Time

**Author's Note:**

> Another ficlet challenge aimed at keeping me productive and getting me back into the swing of writing on the daily. As a person with mental health issues and no money, the process of self-isolating is a stressful one. I combat depression by staying busy and social with the people I enjoy, which I cannot currently do, and I work in the arts so I am penniless (though artistically fulfilled so... that’s good I guess?) and there is no golden umbrella for a non-union freelance artisan.  
> So to combat the impending panic of isolation and unemployment, I’ve decided to use fanfiction as my outlet. I’ve already been in isolation for a week, but let’s call this “Day 1” since it’s the start of the project. It’ll be a collection of different ideas so each chapter will be a standalone unless I decide to continue a particular idea or anyone asks for that. I’ll give each chapter a name, so I can keep track. 
> 
> Hopefully these little fics can bring, if not outright joy, then at least distraction to those of you also looking for some escapism. 
> 
> Fandom has been a real life-saver for me before so hopefully my personal medicine can entertain some of my fellow geeks too. <3 I might do another shuffle challenge? I need prompts to get rolling so if anyone has any they might like me to riff on please feel free to add them to the comments below. Tags will be updated as the series grows and warning will be added to each chapter. 
> 
> Thanks my gender-neutral Babes. 
> 
> (None of this is Beta’d - have mercy.)
> 
> __________________________________________________
> 
> Summary - DAY 1
> 
> Stiles would have thought Derek was a coffee-man.

Stiles has always thought of Derek as kind of a brute - like a wolf who was once an ancient Roman soldier or a Celtic warrior who now has the displeasure of having to deal with civilized people without killing them. That image was largely and, he admits, unfairly formed in the first few months of their knowledge of one another. Wherein Derek seemed violent and brooding an incapable of normal human interaction - like he’d rather be punching trees out in the woods. But it’s been years since Stiles callously joked about Derek’s imminent death, and years since Derek’s seemed so alien. These years of exposure have taught Stiles of the man’s complexity. And he is _complex_.

But one of the most startling realizations ha to be the elegance Derek sometimes expresses.

There are ways in which Derek is so... gentlemanly.

He’s quiet, often. Despite his initial rage, nowadays Derek endeavors to be neutral, even-tempered. He is intelligent and intellectual, obviously well-read and well-researched. Polite to a near-Regency level at times.

And he likes tea.

Stiles is a coffee-man. He’d assumed Derek was a coffee-man. But more than that, he’d assumed Derek was a black coffee-man, a _dark roast darker than my tortured soul_ kind of coffee-man. But he was wrong.

He’d spent weeks of cafe meet-ups and loft meet-ups and eventually a morning after caffeine boost of acquiring Derek black coffee. He’d thought it was a kindness, that it showed interest and intent and gentlemanliness of his own.

But for as smart as Stiles is, he misses things. Mostly things that are right in front of his face.

It occurred to him earlier in the day, watching Derek dip a teabag in and out of steeped water almost delicately before tossing the bag and blowing gently over the steaming cup, that there was something incongruent about the scene before him as compared to the image of Derek and his full personhood that Stiles had mosaically pieced together in his mind.

But then they started arguing about selkies - from a purely theoretical standpoint - and Derek had said something so acerbically witty that Stiles had jumped him right there at the kitchen table.

They managed to make it to the bedroom - thank you derek - where Stiles was now lying awake, tapping his thumb against his lip and reexamining that moment with the teabag as Derek slept, dead to the world beside him. He was like that, Stiles learned only two days earlier when they’d done this for the first time. “This” being sex but not _sex_. They’d reached some sort of unspoken agreement to pace themselves in that department, and Stiles was in no way disappointed to be relegated to a little (or a lot) of quality frottage until this sudden-not-so-sudden evolution in their relationship made sense. But in the few days they’d been exploring Stiles had learned some things about Derek, including this. One good orgasm puts Derek out, for at least an hour. His passions run high, very high, and then he crashes. It’s adorable, and vulnerable in a way that makes Stiles’ heart ache and makes him, at this moment, think about that goddamned tea.

He slips out of the bed as gracefully as he can, fistpumping when he makes it out of the room without making a sound. He gets to the kitchen and starts opening cabinets, in search of proof to his hunch. He’s vindicated when, in the cupboard beside the pantry he finds an assortment of tea boxes. Decaf, regular, Irish Breakfast, Herbal, Oolong - all of it. Every kind of tea stiles could name and some he’s never heard of, all nestled in Derek Hale’s kitchen cupboard beside a jar of local lavender honey.

Stiles looks back at the bedroom, thinks about the werewolf currently sleeping there, and tries to match that, with this.

Derek’s not a coffee-guy.

Of course there’s the possibility that he likes both, but there’s something niggling at the back of Stiles’ mind. He looks in the cupboard and sees the banged-up, sturdy ikea mugs they always seem to use, that Stiles always utilizes to transport as much coffee into his face as possible. But when he pushes them aside he sees three mismatched, daintier tea cups. They’re plain, still sturdy in their smaller way, but they are undoubtedly teacups.

They’ve been in here the whole time and Stiles must have seen them, but he’s never actually registered their presence or what they mean.

Derek’s maybe not a coffee-guy. He’s a tea-guy. Or more than likely hes a both-guy - which, stiles can’t help but snort at that because _yeah he is_. But the point is, Derek would never say, one way or another.

Suddenly intrigued, he steps his way carefully through the loft to gather intel. The once-barren place has evolved over the years, more of Derek infused into it slowly enough that Stiles thinks he sort of hasn’t really taken note. At Derek’s book shelf he sees not only lore, but a notable collection of classics - everything from _Ivanhoe_ to _Wuthering Heights_. Every spine cracked.

Volumes of British and American poetry, much of it Romantic Era, interspersed with _Frankenstein_ and _Maltese Falcon_. The cement on the wide sill by the window is worn a little smooth, as though someone has spent a great many hours sitting there. And Stiles’ old hoodie, the red one full of holes, worn and washed nearly though, is hanging seemingly haphazardly over a notch in the corner. It’s just out of the way enough to look forgotten. But Stiles looks around the loft, at the order Derek has brought to the chaos that was his life, and realizes that nothing here is out of place. He remembers the teasing way he’d demanded the hoodie back when he’d seen it hanging there one day, and the easy gruffness of Derek’s tone when he’d told him it was a tariff, that it was going to stay there as a reminder to Stiles to stop leaving his shit everywhere, that Derek was going to start keeping and/or destroying anything Stiles left behind like a slob. Stiles had laughed, hadn’t thought anything of it, had referred to the red hoodie as a totem.

He thinks now, he was absolutely right.

He thinks now, that there’s so much of Derek that’s right here, on display, that for some reason he didn’t see. He feels guilty about it for a moment, before that is utterly eclipsed with a kind of excitement. Because now there are ways - ways maybe even better than dragging Derek’s mouth toward his exposed neck - that he can show the man that he knows him.

And stiles wants, so much, to know him. In every way.

There’s a kettle, shiny and clean and so blatantly present sitting right there on the stove top.

It’s been just over an hour. Derek will be up soon. Stiles fills the kettle, sets it on the stove to boil, and searches through the teas to find something soothing.He manages to snatch the kettle off the burner just before it starts to whistle and adds a little of the lavender honey to the earthy tea on a whim.

When he tiptoes back into the bedroom, Derek snuffles, waking slowly. Stiles can’t help but smile at that, such a ridiculously wolfy gesture. He knows better than to attempt to climb into the bed with a cup of near-boiling water, he knows himself too well for that. So Stiles goes around to Derek’s side of the bed, settles himself comfortably on the floor beside him. Derek wakes and rolls to face him, cracking his sleepy eyes and grumbling a sound at Stiles for being in the wrong place. His hair is sticking up and his cheeks are pink and for a split-second Stiles thinks he might cry, right there beside Derek’s bed, in the broad afternoon light. But he reels that in. He presents the tea to Derek, joking, “Morning sleepyhead.”

Derek grumbles at him before his eyes catch on the teacup and seem to get stuck there. After a long moment, Derek’s eyes slide to his and he seems almost hopeful in his confusion. Eventually he takes the cup, looking at it like it is very important indeed, _another totem_ Stiles thinks, and says, his voice small, “Thanks.”

Stiles chokes down another unreasonable titlewave of emotion and just smiles at him, throat tightening at the way Derek looks back, sort of awed.

Stiles kisses his cheek too-sweetly before he can lose the gumption to do so and then clamors over him to get back into the bed.He flops down beside him and watches him drink his tea.

The picture is pretty, and it makes a lot of sense.

Now, more than ever, the image of Derek fits the man he knows.


	2. Day 2 - Fox Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is missing. Derek’s trying to keep it together, but it isn’t exactly easy on his nerves when he follows Stiles scent and doesn’t find him, but an irritable woodland creature.

Stiles is missing.  
Stiles is missing and Derek is trying to be stalwart as ever, just as he was when Stiles was a demon and he felt a deep and abiding need to protect him from all-comers, while playing it all close to the vest. He thinks he successfully hid his trepidation at the fact that, should Chris have actually tried to kill him, Derek would have ripped out his throat. It was a tightrope then, and emotionally speaking, it’s the same now.

It’s only been two days, which in terms of disappearances is nothing by Derek Hale standards. But Stiles isn’t Derek, and the fervor of those who are missing Stiles brings that into sharp relief. It had taken weeks for anyone to notice Derek was gone when Kate took him to Mexico.

It was Stiles who noticed his absence; Stiles who, Derek noticed after returning home and into his proper form, had been calling and texting and infuriated by the lack of response. He spurred the others into action and Derek doesn’t know why he warranted such effort.

But that’s not important.

What’s important, is that Stiles is definitely missing and it’s been almost two days and his fragile human body is out there somewhere, not where it should be. Derek is remaining calm because he must, because Scott and the sheriff, and Lydia are in a near-frenzy. So Derek remains calm. He closes his fists tightly around poking claws that just seem to drop of their own accord and keeps his tone smart and neutral, expression even when they talk about statistics and plans, about grid searches, and cell-phone tracking and whether they should call in the police, which the sheriff does. This turns up Stiles’ cell phone, cracked and dewy on the forest floor in a far corner of the preserve. It’s not much to go on but it gives them a place to start.

Derek calmly takes Stiles’ plaid shirt off the back of his computer chair, lucky that no one sees his hands shake, so that he has a reference of the scent to track. As if he needs a reference. Derek has been attuned to Stiles in a way he can’t explain for awhile now. He knows the beat of his heart, the sound of the Jeep from a mile away, and he knows his scent.

Which is why he nearly drives his car off the road when he catches an earthy whiff of it on his drive back through the preserve. He slams the brake, manages to get the car in park before he’s out on the unpaved road, nose working triple time. He follows the scent on foot, surprised when it follows the path of the road and itchy when he realizes the scent is slightly... off. It’s Stiles, there’s no doubt, but there’s something different in his scent. The spiciness of him muted with something... green? Earthy. Which makes Derek’s heart beat hard, because he’s always associated that spiciness with Stiles’ snark, his sharp wit. He doesn’t know what it means for that to be gone.

When he reaches the bend in the road, Stiles’ scent veers left, and Derek’s instincts go haywire - he knows exactly where Stiles is headed. He runs to his house, his family house - what’s left of it - following the ghost of stiles’ presence the whole way. When he gets there, the scent is strong, current, and Derek knows he’s here. He listens, but he doesn’t hear him - his breath or his heartbeat. He hears only the scampering and flutter-quickness of animals and their heartbeats. And to smell stiles, to know he’s here but not hear his heart, makes Derek’s eyes burn blue, makes his body tense and his heart constrict. He follows the scent, quickly and without pause, up onto the porch. It’s right there - right around the corner - Derek turns, fangs dropped and sees...

A fox.

A red fox.

Dirty, bright russet with little black feet and sharp teeth exposed. It’s backed itself into the corner, whiskey brown eyes wide and focused on Derek. Derek comes up short. Stiles is... here? But he is also not here. And there’s a rabid fox where Derek’s nose tells him Stiles should be. He blinks at it, it blinks back, shaking with fear or rage, probably both. When his fangs retract on instinct, Derek is surprised by his body’s response.

Even that minute movement startles a tremor out of the fox. It hisses, ears flat, eyes sharp as they track him. But his body gives mixed signals because there’s something in the little beast that wants Derek to come closer. Something about it is... wrong. It doesn’t smell like fox, it smells like a were - like one of them, and like... like...

“No...” Derek says, not ready to believe it. Beacon Hills is nuts but this is just... He narrows his eyes at the fox, and it seems to return the gesture. Derek looks around, only willing to look stupid in front of one sentient being at a time and says, “...Stiles?”

The fox’s ears pop up, big and pointy, and its lips lower to cover its teeth. Derek watches him carefully, the fox does the same.  
“No way,” Derek whispers. He slowly lowers himself to the charred floorboards of the porch, careful not to spook the fox. When he’s low enough, he says again, “Stiles. That better fucking be you.” The fox doesn’t seem to really comprehend, per se, but it does relax a little further, head cocking to the side curiously. Derek grits his teeth against the instinct to smile because good god, that’s cute. He reaches his hand out, slowly, toward the fox and it watches with slightly terrified eyes. When Derek is within snapping distance the fox pounces uncoordinatedly and snaps Derek’s pointer finger up between his teeth, but he doesn’t bite, not really. Just holds Derek’s finger between his teeth and glares at him, like a threat. Like he intends to hold an evolved Beta werewolf’s finger hostage. Derek’s heart flips with an _oh no_ , because that is a very Stiles-like behavior.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, as though he’s trying to wake him up, and lets his eyes burn blue. Stiles’ jaws go loose and he stares at Derek a long moment before hopping forward almost faster than Derek’s eyes can track and head-butting him hard in the chest. Stiles squawks indignantly when Derek hefts him up with one hand under his midsection. He brings the wriggling fox up to his nose and nuzzles to scent at his scruff. Stiles wiggles with another screech, but relaxes into him after that, and Derek gets a good enough whiff that there’s no denying it.

He turns the fox around and looks him in his whiskey-brown eyes and says, exhausted, “Shit.”

Stiles yips in agreement.


	3. Day Three - Soft Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles comes back from college ripped AF just in time for Derek to have gotten a little soft-hearted and vulnerable.

Derek always loved Stiles’ softness. The lack of mercenary definition to him, the way his belly wasn’t pudgy, per-se, but regardless of his fluctuating fitness he never managed to become werewolf-hard. There were no ridges to him, just soft, flat torso and vaguely masculine limbs and sweet pink cheeks and lips.  
For all of Stiles’ sharpness, his body remained pliant.

Soft.

In a secret and cowardly way, Derek thinks that it’s a blessing. These are details that keep Stiles blissfuly human, imperfect. If he were that whip smart, that rebelliously determined, _and_ built like and MMA killer? he’d be too intimidating. Too handsome. Or rather, his handsomeness would become too obvious to the general public, who had largely overlooked him as a spaz before (much to Derek’s relief).

Which is... wrong.

It’s wrong and territorial and selfish to want Stiles to stay an outcast, to want people not to acknowledge how amazing he is. Derek knows that. But Derek’s come to terms with a lot of difficult truths about himself over the years. He’s worked hard to get comfortable with his own faults and quirks. Possessive near-obsession with Stiles is something he’s been banging his head against for a decade. In recent years he’s been able to accept it. Not only his shocking bisexuality, but his slide into demisexuality - he thinks maybe he wasn’t always this way, certainly not as a teenager, but that it has developed over the course of fifteen years of trauma, much of it sexual. Cora has mentioned many times now, with all the subtlety of a hammer, that she believes sexuality to be fluid, especially so in people like them. Wolves. The “transfer-ative nature of pack dynamics and hierarchy” has them “pre-wired to easily fluctuate in definition”, she says.

Derek had stumbled over the word _demisexual_ in a book about sexuality and repression that he’d found nestled into the self-help and recovery section of a small bookstore outside Amarillo, Texas that he purchased sandwiched in a stack of other books he barely even wanted, that were mostly just there to cloak that one title. He had been too nervous to read the thing outside of his bedroom, door closed, even when he was alone. For a month he’d hid it behind the shelf whenever he needed a break from it. Nestled it out of sight like something illicit. He was still having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that he had issues with sexuality at all, and having the words on the page reach up and slap him with terms like “rape recovery” and “coercive sexual control” and “touch revulsion” was a lot of reality for him to come to terms with all at once.

  
He vacillated between wanting to rip the book to shreds, and feeling suddenly, terrifyingly understood.

Some of the terminology rang strikingly true to his experiences. He’d finished the book months ago, but sometimes when he’s feeling overwhelmed or lonely he picks it back up, reads sections of it again. It makes him feel less... broken.

The reality is that Derek hasn’t been able to get it up for someone on purely physical attraction since before Jennifer. Hence - _broken._ Her betrayal, the realization that he’ll never know how much of his affection for her was actually real, has had a lasting and begrudgingly physical effect. The fuzzy-headed memory of her soft body and needy-sweet scent has broken something in him that was a long time in the breaking. Derek knows what it was - it was the solely instinctual, physical part of his sexuality; the drive to act purely on attraction and hormones and lust. Those things don’t work the same for him anymore.  
Not since the fissures splintered throughout him by Kate were cracked all the way open by Jennifer. Jennifer who he liked. Jennifer who he trusted. Jennifer whose eager hands and pretty face had made him reach out and touch, had made him want so much to touch and please. Nowadays his body wants nothing to do with someone he doesn’t have true affection for, dare he even call it love. And the word, _demisexual,_ it makes him feel like that’s ok. Like somehow, that makes sense. 

  
Besides, there’s only one person Derek wakes up hard thinking about, daydreams of holding, actively wants to touch and doesn’t have to just dream about feeling comfortable with. Stiles has been worming his way into Derek’s heart and psyche for years. Well enough that thinking about him physically, doesn’t cause Derek revulsion or an empty lack of interest like it does when he tries to think about anyone else. In a miraculous and torturous turn of events, Derek finds that he’s actually attracted to Stiles. In a way he thought he would never feel that again. But Derek’s sexual interest has been shamefully well-honed in the deepest, most embarrassing corners of his mind.

  
He isn’t ashamed of the more lupine things about himself. He’s proud of what and who he is, the lineage he carries, the truth of his form. But there’s something about that part of him infiltrating his sexual needs that somehow catches him off-guard. He keeps thinking about Stiles, sleep-soft and warm, tangled up in his sheets, utterly defenseless and human, relying on derek, _needing_ Derek, and it makes Derek blush even while he feels a little southward bloodrush. Maybe because his mind can conjure about one hundred different equally likely responses from Stiles after the quick-witted boy (now man) susses out just what exactly cranks Derek’s engine; that it’s not just the physical things, like Stiles’ pink mouth and sinfully masculine hands, but the soft-underbelly and exposed throat of a physically weaker member of the pack.

Stiles is so utterly human; he bruises, he trips, he bangs around without grace or instinct and he needs caring for, feeding, holding, soothing. Protecting. Or rather, Derek feels a primal need to do those things for him, to cherish him, to lie over him, prone over his soft, breakable body and shield him, scent him. Something about Stiles’ vulnerability, and yes, more specifically the tangible and visible reminder of his humanness via his soft belly and thighs, leaves Derek longing.

  
It’s an objectification Derek allows himself because he knows himself well enough to know he would never take advantage. And he’ll never speak of it, no one will ever know.

Besides, his affection for Stiles is much deeper than any sexual desire. Stiles has become Derek’s closes confidant, even from across the country. So he remains as content as he can be, living in Stiles general sphere of existence, giving everything he can to their ever-stronger friendship and being as good to him as he can manage in that way. And Stiles, borderline-genius and utterly oblivious, continues to do the same with Derek, none the wiser. So when The semester is over, and Stiles has announced he’s coming home to Beacon Hills for the summer months, Derek is genuinely excited. Talking to Stiles on the phone, texting and snapchatting (yes, derek snapchats now - but mostly only to receive and anger and he is strictly against filters of all kinds) all pale in comparison to having Stiles here in person. Derek is well prepared to appease his innate need to care for Stiles via friendship, as he has done for years. He’s content to love him, and never get to touch him, but be safely nestled within that safe little circle of friendship and pack. He can live with that. He’s excited to live with that. So when the semester ends, and the Jeep finally rolls up through the preserve, to there the Hale house sits almost-finished, Derek is smiling softly, feeling at ease.

Nothing could have prepared him for what stepped out of the car.

  
The door swings open, creaky and calamitous as always, and out hops the Stiles Derek has always known.

Sort of.

Derek feels his heart flip at the sight of him, at first only because he’s so happy to have him back. But then it keeps on tripping, because Stiles is... changed. Stiles’ hair is shaggy, grown long, his face no longer as soft and clean, now he’s got a dark, well-managed scruff. His jaw is sharper. He’s slender. Not too skinny and limb-y like he was sometimes in his adolescence but firm and fit, in a form-fitting heather grey t-shirt and snug black jeans. He’s wearing his baseball cap backwards, and he jumps deftly out of the Jeep with a smile where he might have once tumbled. When he raises his arms to the sides as he run-walks toward him for a hug, Derek can see the definition in his shoulders, his chest.  
Before he can breathe, he’s wrapped up in Stiles’ arms, his brain fritzing at the data intake of his body - warm, firm, strong, _hard._  
He skips right over mourning that softness he’s always had affection for into nearly blacking out with something else entirely, some sort of... intrigue.  
“Suck it up sourwolf,” Stiles grins into his ear, “I’m gonna keep hugging you til you get with the program and reciprocate.”  
Derek blinks back to reality and his arms fly around Stiles too quick, nearly knocking the breath out of him. Stiles merely laughs and Derek thanks god he’s distracted because his hands flex against Stiles’ rib cage and shoulder of their own volition where Stiles is toned and firm. When Stiles pulls away he doesn’t seem to have noticed Derek’s brain is re-booting and immediately starts talking. He talks about the drive and fawns over the house and jokes about school. The mile-a-minute words and overly expressive gestures make Derek smile, make him relax again.

This is still Stiles.

  
He’s the same. He’s utterly the same. He’s just... Stiles. As he always was - loud and smart, sarcastic and sharp, confident and unsure at the same time, a little too loose-limbed. But there’s some slight changes that can’t be denied - he’s more sure in his body, more graceful. He seems comfortable in his skin, which gives him a baseline of confidence that Derek is utterly enthralled by. He talks and talks all the way into the house and it makes it easy for Derek to fall in step. He sprawls, as he always has, over surfaces that don’t belong to him, as though he owns them; before now it’s never felt like a cleverly-crafted display of dominance. But now, collapsing onto Derek’s couch with his long legs spread easily and a lazy hand sweeping up to scratch at his stomach, haphazardly lifting his shirt to expose the flat of his lower abdomen, the dark trail of hair and, god help him, the vein stretching over his taut hip and disappearing down into the top of his pants... Derek can’t help but wonder if Stiles’ refusal to feel discomfort really is a display of dominance after all.  
“Derek?” Stiles says, as though not for the first time, and waves. Derek’s eyes snap to his, breaking away from that slip of skin between his pants and T-shirt. He’s saved from having to put words together when the front door opens and closes and Isaac comes walking in.

  
“Hey,” he greets them, not coming over to hug or greet Stiles any further than that. The relationship between them has always been contentious and though it’s obvious to Derek they both just want to be accepted by the other, he’s not going to mediate friendship between two grown men.

  
Isaac sips his coffee pretending not to care Stiles is there, then puts his travel mug down on the table and picks up the mail as though there is nothing new or different about finding Stiles in the house after work. Stiles rolls his eyes a little bitterly at that and turns back to Derek. “You two must have incredible discourse on spaghetti nights,” he drawls sarcastically.

  
And Derek, feeling utterly upended, laughs. Not a full laugh. But a painfully awkward fake laugh. Both Isaac and Stiles peer at him. A long moment of quiet goes by. Stiles narrows his eyes at him.

  
“You’re being weird.”

  
Derek rolls his eyes dramatically to cover the surge in his heartbeat, and while it seems to appropriately keep Stiles guessing, he can’t help but notice the way Isaac tilts his head at him from across the room.

  
“No I guess you’re right,” Stiles hauls himself up off the couch and into Derek’s space. “You’re weird all the time,” Stiles jokes, smacking Derek’s chest with his knuckles and winking obnoxiously.

  
Derek thanks the universe that Stiles’ back is to Isaac when the flip-stutter of Derek’s heart at even that brief contact brings his Beta up short - Isaac’s face goes slack, mug thunking down loudly on the table when his arm seems to simply give out with what Derek knows sickeningly in his heart is _the realization_.  
  
Thankfully, werewolf reflexes being what they are, Isaac manages to play it off like a careless attempt at annoyance by the time Stiles turns around. “Don’t you have a scarf to knit?” Stiles bites with a little more irritation that necessary. He rolls his eyes at Isaac’s sarcastic smile and turns bodily back to Derek, who has just barely managed to get himself under control. “Anyway. Meet me at the Preserve later. I want to try some stuff.”

Derek’s jaw clenches so hard he feels his molars creak.

  
He nods stiffly and Stiles smiles indulgently, rolling his eyes before trotting easily out of the house. The Jeep is all the way down the street before Derek bothers to look up from where he’s staring blankly in order to focus his ears to the sound of him. And when he looks up, Isaac is there, staring at him with a carefully neutral expression.

  
Derek knows how this would have gone before, when he was a new Alpha and Isaac was a new Beta and they both just utterly sucked at everything. The instinct is there at the tip of his tongue even now - anger, fear, command, forced distance. But he fights it. He’s come a long way since then. So has Isaac, who looks him carefully in the eye but in no way cowers.

“So,” Isaac starts carefully, “that’s a development.”

  
Old Derek would have told Isaac to shut up, threatened him, fled the room in a whirlwind of constrained anger. But current-Derek just sighs heavily, thunking his forehead against the wall repeatedly.

  
“You’re serious,” Isaac says, not asks, but his voice is careful. Derek has no words, so he hides in the little safe space of delusion he’s made for himself against the wall. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure it’s reciprocated.”

  
Derek struggles to say it but eventually he musters, “How would you be able to tell?”

  
Isaac snorts, “Stiles sucks at hiding his chemosignals. I mean, Stiles always smells horny. That hasn’t really changed,” Isaac smirks. “But, it isn’t really adolescent horniness rolling off him when he’s next to you. Not anymore. You’re the born-wolf, you must know that.”

Derek sighs sharply, runs a hand through his hair, “Everything about stiles is... Even his scent is... confusing. I don’t...” He looks up sharply at the sound of Isaac’s chuckle. Isaac puts his hands out, palms up in response, a supplicant gesture.

“Hey, I’m not making fun,” he says through a smile. Derek narrows his eyes at him. “Seriously,” Isaac offers, a little more sober. “I just - I never really thought I’d see the day. It’s kind of nice.” Derek furrows his brows at him in question and Isaac rolls his eyes in a very Stiles-eske expression, making Derek wonder if that’s why they don’t get along - they’re too similar in some ways. “Seeing you invested in someone. Crushing,” he says with an evil smirk, “aaaand being an idiot about it.” Derek rolls his eyes to cover his blush and Isaac says again with a shrug, “It’s nice.”

  
“What do you think?” Derek dares to ask. It takes every ounce of his willpower, and Isaac, to his credit, seems to notice.

He looks at Derek a long moment before responding sincerely, “We’ve been through some weird stuff together, this pack. We’re grown people now. Stiles... it isn’t hard to see he’s into you.” Derek winces without realizing and Isaac adds, “Not just like that. You two are like... there’s always been something there. I saw it, even if you hadn’t. It was part of the reason I was so mean to him, when you first turned me. Part of why being friends with Scott was so much easier. I was jealous - he had something with you, that I couldn’t understand. Some sort of... understanding. A connection. I knew, even when we threatened Lydia, we couldn’t dare hurt him. I knew, you and he had something that you and I never would. And I think, now that you’re both older and we’re all a little less psychotic, I think it’s finally...” he gestures broadly.

Derek thinks about that. He’d never considered the possibility that it could be real, an actual real potential thing. He’d never considered what receiving the approval of one of his Betas would do for his heart, his mind, his instincts.

“So what’re you gonna do?” Isaac asks.

Derek doesn’t look him in the eyes. He doesn’t say or do anything. Isaac merely sighs, too heavily - it somehow manages to express disappointment - and squeezes Derek’s shoulder on his way up to his room.

Derek sits there until it’s time to leave to meet Stiles in the woods, just thinking about the possibility. For the first time, it really scares him. Because for the first time, it seems real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok disclaimers: 1) this fic in no way presumes that all demisexuality is a response to trauma.  
> 2) I have set a TERRIBLE example for daily writing. This is way too long to keep up!
> 
> Also, the site is being super glitchy for me tonight? Idk if anyone else is having this problem, but it’s really fighting me when I’m editing drafts - keeps freezing up or forcing my cursor back to the top paragraph. Super weird. So I might comb through this for errors editing-wise again tomorrow in hopes that I’ll be able to better read it.


	4. DAY FOUR - “Sugar - wait I’m not calling you Daddy”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets fired and the weird guy down the hall who he has just learned DOES have a name, Derek (who is creepily obsessed with him), offers to supplement his rent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was inspired by the events of my day. 
> 
> Not that a sexy wolf-man watched me from down the hall. Just that I was laid off from my job (and therefore lost my benefits) at the worst possible time. So sorry this one’s going up a little late in the day - it’s been a rough one y’all. #thankscovid

There’s this weird guy down the hall.

He toes the pencil-thin line between creepy-brooding and sexy-brooding that Stiles has appreciated since he was ten, reading his first Batman comic and totally unquestioning as to why he spent a lot of time focusing on any page wherein Batman was illustrated very... explicitly. All muscles and bulk wrapped in tight black.

Stiles was oblivious enough of himself that it wasn’t until sophomore year of high school when Danny Mahealani swaggered up to him shirtless and joked about deflowering him that he realized what it meant that he actually really wouldn’t mind that. What could he say, he’s a late bloomer.

Stiles didn’t act on his bisexuality until he drunken kissed some guy at a club freshmen year of college. And then there was a lot of anonymous kissing and grinding in clubs after that. It was interesting, scientifically, but Stiles never felt the need to bring those exchanges to completion so to speak. He was fine finishing things with his own hand in his own home.

Then sophomore year he had a sweet girlfriend, who took up most of his personal time, and when that fizzled out with no hard feelings it was just in time for his program to really pick up speed.

Now he’s a senior with a full (and a half) course-load, a job that pays his bills (just barely), no girlfriend and definitely no real experience with men.

Which is why his equal parts attraction to and frustration with the weird guy down the hall has his whole body confused. On the one hand, the guy is a dick. Not just because he looks like the kind of guy that would gaybash you into next week, but because he is actually rude.

Stiles cannot abide rude. Stiles is very nice.

Ok, he’s maybe not very nice actually, but Stiles is personable and polite to strangers as his father painstakingly raised him to be. So he recognizes when someone is being rude, and weird guy is rude. He’s a close the elevator doors when you’re running toward it kind of guy.

Stiles knows this from experience.

Anyway, the point is, this guy is rude and brooding with waves of rage just rolling off of him palpably, and Stiles should avoid him like the plague but instead he’s sort of... intrigued. When the weird guy is nearby Stiles’ skin sort of... tingles. His body has a literal physical reaction to the guy’s proximity. It doesn’t hurt but its almost... itchy.

And it’s weird because Stiles is certain the guy hates him - like 100%, DNA-match, scientifically proven certain - because the guy is always furious whenever he sees Stiles in the hallway or joins in the elevator after him. He’s even got that angry-sexy jaw tick thing going! Which... Stiles should not want to get thrown against an elevator wall and made out with by a dude who gives off definite _punch you in the face_ vibes but damn. He is sexy. All dark hair and light eyes and body for days; he probably even has those muscles that you get on the sides - those sexy-slats. Stiles tries not to make out the shape of them in sexy-murder-face-neighbor’s t-shirt, because, well, _murder._ But it’s hard sometimes! The guy is always suddenly appearing out of nowhere and then storming into the elevator. Stiles is so damned curious what this guy does with his days, what he is up to in life, that he somehow has the exact same schedule as Stiles. And curiosity has always been a strong motivator in Stiles’ life, so while he hasn’t worked up the nerve to attempt talking to him again (the first few attempts ending in embarrassment and merely more concentrated rage respectively) he has been gathering little clues about the man, as many as he can, by way of observation. It’s like a pleasant hobby, so usually seeing the handsome murderer in the elevator gives him a little spike of excitement. But today, he’s not in the mood for excitement. Today, Stiles isn’t in the mood for anything - not walking home or being seen by other humans or speaking to anyone and definitely not being smooshed in the a metal box with an extremely sexy man who has decided for no good reason to hate him. Stiles is on the verge of rage himself by the time he makes it back to his building, four hours early and suddenly jobless. Because no, they couldn’t just call him and tell him he was fired before he rode the train and two buses to get out there. No, no, they had to call him in for an “emergency shift” to do him the “courtesy” of laying him off in person.

“It’s not a reflection on you or your skills” they’d said. “It isn’t personal,” they’d said. “This is hard for us too,” they’d said. And maybe Stiles should have seen it coming, but it turns out the business had been underwater for some time, and this round of sudden firings was their last-ditch effort to keep the place open. But here’s the thing, Stiles had just had a meeting not two days before with his direct supervisor who had informed him cheerily that everything was fine. That his job was safe. So safe! _Volvo moving at ten miles an hour safe!_

And yet. Here he is.On a random fucking Wednesday, suddenly jobless.

He’s in the tail end of his degree, his dad is out of work due to a knee injury and therefore not picking up the plethora of overtime hours he claims they so sorely need, and Stiles’ roommate just high-tailed it to live with his girlfriend last week. So now he’s got no job, double bills, and utterly lacks the cushion of parental assistance because he knows his dad will send everything he’s got, even push himself to get back to work faster, if he thinks Stiles is in need.

So Stiles can’t be blamed for his short fuse when the elevator doors are all but closed and then of course, at the last second, the weird guy from down the hall comes slamming in. He shoves the doors back open and steps in, the doors closing behind agin him, and when his eyes catch Stiles’ - he _glares_. And that’s it. That’s the straw. Stiles throws his arms up exasperated and shouts, “ **SERIOUSLY**?”

The weird guy seems shocked, but Stiles doesn’t have time for his stupid confusion because this is not his fault! Whatever problem he has is _not Stiles’ fault! He doesn’t know why the asshole keeps glaring at him but seriously, if he could just give it a fucking rest Stiles is having a really rough day and one more blow might break him because he’s fucking broke because his roommate totally ditched him, his schoolwork is eating him alive, he hasn’t slept in FOUR DAYS and now he’s just gotten laid off - he doesn’t even know how he’s going to eat tonight-_

“Spaghetti,” the weird guy blurts out.

Stiles blinks at him.

“I made spaghetti. There’s too much. You can eat that tonight.”

Stiles stares at him. Mouth open. “...What?” Which is when he realizes, “Oh my god. I said all that out loud.”

The murder-man makes an almost disgusted expression of confusion and Stiles is slightly enthralled by the expressiveness of his eyebrows. “You didn’t know?” The man asks, shocked. 

“Sorry, it’s just... been a day.”

“I heard,” the man grunts. They stand in silence a moment. “You can’t make your rent?” The man asks.

“No, but, I guess I have time right. I mean - it’s only the 27th.”

The man looks at him again, eyebrows raised. “It’s... the 29th,” he says as though he regrets it.

“Oh. Right.” Stiles says realizing. His body just crumples. Two days then. His rent is due on the first and his landlord keeps a nice building, but he does so in part by being an absolute asshole. He a one-strike kind of guy, and Stiles’ asshole former roommate has already garnered their first and only two strikes. He thinks about the time it will take to fill out applications, to do interviews, actually get hired, to train into a new job, and it swirls around alongside the amount of work he knows he has to do on his research, to finish his degree, and how much money his meds are gonna cost, and that’s whisked up by the thought of how he won’t be able to surprise his dad with a flight to New York for his Graduation and it all kind whirlpools together in his brain-pan until he can feel his heart banging, chest going tight, and his eyes getting hot and he thinks _oh god not here_.

And then the weird guy speaks.

“How long until you graduate?”

Stiles opens his eyes with difficulty, knows they must look glassy, and says, “huh?”

“You must be almost done, right?”

Stiles wonders briefly how he knows, but he figures it must be obvious. He nods, “Two months.”

The man nods, and then turns to face him. In some sort of instinctual body response, Stiles straightens up. The man narrows his eyes, seemingly examining Stiles closely. When he takes a step forward Stiles can see the way the blue fades into green in his eyes.

“Ok look,” the guy starts gruffly, “I need help getting my degree online. You need to make the rent without having to work three shit jobs for the next two months. I propose you help me get my degree, and I’ll supplement your income so that you can get yours. It should be easy for you. You’re an Ivy League type.”

“How do you know I’m-

The man tilts his head, eyes going hooded and flat in judgement as he gestures to Stiles’ hoodie, which says COLOMBIA across it in that terribly cheesy college font. “Oh. Yep. That’d do it.”

The guy rolls his eyes but says, “So?”

“So... Sorry - let me just get this straight. You want me to tutor you, and in exchange you’ll pay me a living wage and presumably at least one night of spaghetti?”

The guy nods once, expression unfaltering. “I have the money, and you need the help.”

Stiles squints at him.

“Is this a sex thing? Because if this is a sex thing I’m gonna have to say no. I mean - I don’t actually want to say no, but I’m a sheriff’s son and no tea no shade to the sex-work industry, but I just can’t really bring myself to succeed in that kind of employ. Besides, I don’t want my first time to be like a weird rent for ass exchange. No that it would be my first time! I mean I’m not like a virgin - not that there’s anything wrong with that! I just - with a man. I’ve never had like full-blown sex with a man. And that’s what you are. You are definitely... a man.” Stiles blows out a long breath trying to get himself together. The guy is still merely staring at him like he’s an idiot. “I assume that’s a No, on the expectation of blowjobs then?”

“I don’t pay for blowjobs.”

“Clearly,” Stiles says before he can stop himself. “I mean-”

The guy sighs heavily and says, “Stiles, are you in or not?”

Stiles blinks at him, the dissonance of the familiarity tugging ay him. “How did you know my name?”

The man looks blank-faced for a second before he says, “You told me idiot. Maybe having you as a tutor is not such a good idea-“

“No, no! I’m a great tutor. Very studious. Very patient.”

“Good. Spaghetti. Then we’ll talk details.” The man jabs his finger into the Door Open button and stalks out.

Stiles glances around shocked, having forgotten we were even in an elevator. “Right... spaghetti.” He follows the handsome stranger out in a daze, passes by his own door with a bit of trepidation and asks, “Wait - what’s your name even?”

The man looks over hi shoulder at him as he keys into the door and smirks and Stiles’ heart nearly falls into his knees.

“Derek. Derek Hale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes, feedback, prompts or opinions on which, if any, of these you’d like to see more of are of course cherished and appreciated. Especially today, on this, The Day of Our Lord Unemployment.


	5. DAY FIVE - Stupid Werewolf Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles: “Stupid werewolves and their stupid superhearing.”  
> Lydia: “Yeah, he definitely heard that.”  
> Derek: *hears everything*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sterek from isolation-land! I hope everyone is doing well! I’m trying to keep busy and keep optimistic.   
> As always, comments or prompts are welcomed and appreciated.

It feels somehow familiar and new to be here, in his childhood home, chatting about his feeling and unpacking boxes with Lydia. She’s as sure and graceful as ever, and now that they’ve evolved as people into a close facsimile of adulthood, he can appreciate her without **_appreciating_** her. Which is such a relief - for both of them.

Stiles sighs obnoxiously, “It just feels...”

“It feels what, Stiles? use your words,” Lydia snarks breezily, sorting through a previously taped up box labeled _Old Chanel Box 3_. The top is padded out with pastel blouses and sweaters, but under that are dusty leather-bound tomes and miscellaneous magical objects that Stiles is too distracted by his current feelings to worry about.

He files them away though, to obsess about later.

“It feels different. Between us.”

“Different good? Or different awkward?”

“Different... tense? But not in a bad way? Like... there’s this whole new _maybe_ neither of us are are acknowledging out loud but...”

He thinks about the way Derek had looked at him yesterday, when he’d come through the sliding doors at the bus station and Derek had been there waiting - bright-eyed, smiling, hands fisted but not in their usual angry way. Like he was containing... happiness? Derek had looked healthy and happy and heartbreakingly normal. Stiles had gone in for the hug because of course, and Derek had hugged him back, tightly and with no hesitance; he’d pressed his nose to Stiles’ shoulder and breathed deep even though so many hours on a bus meant Stiles must have smelled like recycled air and upholstery cleaner and traces of a hundred other people. But Derek didn’t pull away. He didn’t even joke about it. And then, in the car, when he’d told Stiles he would have happily driven him all the way from the east coast, he was sincere, even a little regretful.

That had been a good ride. They talked easily, happily, and needled each other left and right but without the expected vitriol of their youth. When Derek said goodnight his voice had been... soft.

When Stiles finally looks up again Lydia, who he’d entirely forgotten, is looking at him with a calculated squint and the hint of a smile.

“So when’re you gonna tell him?” she asks, getting right back to unpacking the books that apparently Stiles is mandated to take custody of.

“Tell him what?”

Lydia rolls her eyes and says, “Stiles, please.”

“This is Derek we’re talking about. He’s not great with his words.”

“He _wasn’t_ ,” Lydia emphasizes the _wasn’t_ very hard. “He’s better now than he’s ever been though. As long as we’ve known him anyway.”

Stiles sighs, “Ok so?”

“Ok so,” Lydia huffs, and then draws out like she’s talking to a child, “maybe you should talk to him. Tell him how you feel. You can’t expect anything to happen if you don’t talk to him.”

“And say what!? _Oh hey - I know I haven’t actually physically seen you in an actual year but I have suddenly decided that I’m inexplicably in love with you. So even though this brings entirely new weird stressful elements to our relationship, lets maybe have this horribly awkward chat about my obsession with you and live in bliss with it for about three months until I disappear to the other side of the country again_.”

“Maybe don’t say that,” Lydia rolls her eyes.

“No, you’re right. I’ll wait for it to rain then I’ll run, soaking wet, to his door and profess my undying love.”

Lydia looks at him hard. Then her eyes track past his shoulder and for a second, her face goes blank, and then suddenly her eyes dart back to his and before Stiles can look back over his shoulder she demands, “Is it?”

“Is what?”

“Is it love?”

Stiles blinks at her. She merely raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms. “Jesus - ok fine, _yes_.”

“Yes?” She looks utterly pleased. Too pleased. It’s weird.

“ _Yes!_ Ok? At first I though we were maybe just bros and I had a hard-on for him. And I have a hard-on like often, so I was willing to live with that. But then... he calls me all the time,” Stiles admits, voice softer, “and I can’t wait to talk to him. I miss his voice when I don’t hear from him. And he’s so... he’s so... his grown so much. I mean - that sounds douchey and patronizing but it’s true and I kinda love watching it happen, you know? He’s so balanced. And smart and such an asshole,” he laughs with affection. “And then when my Dad hurt his knee - he was over here like every day. He FaceTimed me like, constantly so I could see him because he knew I was freaking out, and just - seeing them together...” Stiles shrugs. “Derek feels like family.”

Lydia reaches out and wraps a delicate hand around his wrist, smiling sincerely at him.

“But like, family I want to bone,” Stiles adds cheekily.

Lydia snorts and rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “There’s that,” she says.

“Yeah. There definitely is that,” Stiles admits freely. “I mean, when I was a teenager I think I just wanted him to throw me up against something and mount me-” Lydia snorts, laughing, “-but now it’s like - _feelings_. And yeah, I wouldn’t mind a little werewolf manhandling, but I also want to wake up beside him and like, slow-bone him in the mornings. Which if that isn’t love, I don’t know what is. Oh! I’ve also always wanted to-”

_“Stiles,”_ Lydia interrupts strongly. Her face is pink, and not just from laughing. That’s her, _I’m keeping a secret_ blush. He squints at her suspiciously. “You should probably stop talking now.” She points delicately over his shoulder and he turns to look...

And sees the Camaro parked in front of the house.

Turns back to her, eyes wide.

She stares at him with the toothy expression of _it was for your own good please don’t hate me_. Stiles collapses to the floor as if to hide from view, back against the wall below the window. “Oh my god,” he whisper screams in accusation. She flips her hair and shrugs, but she’s looking very pleased with herself indeed.

“Maybe he didn’t hear...” Stiles whispers.

Lydia takes a moment to look at him like he’s an idiot, and really make sure he sees it before straightening up and better facing the window. “Derek,” Lydia starts commandingly at a very normal, conversational volume level, “you should probably come out now before he dies of cardiac arrest.”

Stiles twists his body to peer over the windowsill. The car turns off, but Derek doesn’t get out. “See! Maybe he didn’t-”

“Flash the lights please,” she interrupts. “To signify that you are in fact a werewolf and a coward.”

After a long moment, Stiles’ breath held, the lights flash. She makes a victorious little sound. And Stiles sinks back down to the floor when he hears the car door open.

“Anyway, I have dinner plans with my mother.”

“Lydia,” Stiles groans threateningly.

“See you tomorrow, Stiles,” she calls sweetly as she’s exiting.

Just outside the house he hears her says something in her usual sweet but clipped tone, though he can’t make out what it is. Then he hears the front door close and he’s lived this moment an infinite number of times with his dad so he knows exactly how long it takes to get from the front door to exactly where he’s sitting, so his body just, inexplicably takes over. Muscle memory. And he pretends to be asleep.

He can feel Derek in the room.

“Are you playing possum?” Derek asks in that fake-affronted tone that screams _are you an idiot?_.

Stiles sighs, eyes still closed, and admits, “That was a mean trick.”

After a long moment, Derek says softly, “Her heart’s in the right place.”

The kindness in the tone causes Stiles’ eyes to pop open against his will. An then it’s real. Derek is standing there, in his black jeans and his long sleeve raglan T that has dark heathered-green sleeves and he looks so... unbearably vulnerable.

“Can I?” He points to the wall.

Stiles doesn’t even know what he’s asking before he says, “Yeah, of course.”

Derek comes over and sits down on the floor beside him. Stiles can feel the warmth of him all up his side and he wants so much to scoot just that scant inch closer, to make them touch from shoulder to ankle.

“Did you mean it?” Derek asks, not looking at him.

“Mean it?” Stiles asks dumbly, caught in the look of Derek’s eyelashes and the way his face is tipped down.

“If you were just trying to joke with Lydia...”

Stiles blinks and blurts, “No!” Because he would never use Derek or the idea of loving Derek like that. “I meant it.”

Derek nods, hands twisting together and says, very quietly, “Even the last part?”

Stiles squints, trying to remember, “Oh - yeah. I mean, I’m versatile so whatever you wanna-”

“ _Not that_ ,” Derek interrupts harshly. But the pretty blush on his cheeks softens the blow. “Before that.”

And just like that Stiles puts it together, knows exactly what he’s asking. “Oh. Yeah. That too,” he admits, watching Derek carefully. “Have been for awhile, actually.”

Derek’s eyes find his suddenly, and all the air leaves Stiles like a popped balloon. He’s seen this Derek before - vulnerable, cracked-open against his will. He cherishes it because there’s something magical in getting to the root of him like this, something rare and precious. But Stiles couldn’t stand it if he was the reason Derek felt exposed or hurt.

“It’s ok,” he offers sincerely, turning toward him. “If you don’t... look yes, I’m in love with you but, Derek, you’re my friend. You’re one of my best friends. And if you don’t feel the same then that’s ok, ok?” Derek looks at him like he’s something from another world. “I won’t make it weird and we can still-”

And then his eyes are closed. His eyes and his lips. Because Derek has pressed his own lips to Stiles’, reeled him in with a hand at the back of his neck and instinct seems to have simply taken over. It feels... good. Soft and simple and remarkably easy.

When Derek pulls away, his eyes scan Stiles’ face in a way that’s just a little bit familiar, but more hungry and more vulnerable. And Stiles, who is a petrified moron, blurts, “ _Ooo la la_.” Derek blinks at him, shocked, and Stiles shakes his head muttering, “ _what the fuck?_ ” Followed shortly by “Sorry - that’s not - I don’t even - what I meant was-”

But then Derek is smiling, big and dopey, and everything seems right. He’s sort of got dimples, Stiles suddenly realizes. Dimples and bunny teeth. He’s cute when he’s happy, and Stiles smiles back because _God, was that him?_ Did he make him this happy?

And then Derek leans in again and Stiles knows, _yes_.


	6. DAY SIX - Fox Boy II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. Stiles is a fox. Now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta’d - I beg your mercy! Also, thanks to everyone stopping by to read!   
> This is a continuation of Fox Boy.

Derek carries Stiles back to the car because he doesn’t trust him not to dart away into the forest. He seems, thus far, mostly driven by fox instincts. And Stiles being a fox, Derek can pretty much wrap his mind around. But Stiles staring at him blankly when he speaks, or when he offers him the phone to maybe nose-to-text with, makes Derek’s body go cold. Because Stiles without his mind, isn’t really Stiles. And worse, when Stiles is back, having suffered through yet another period of lost time and a body not entirely in his control might wreck him.

Fear of loss of autonomy is something they share, Derek knows, though they’ve never discussed it. He’s seen the after-effects of the Nogitsune’s control ever since it finally fucking died. He recognized the sharpness of Stiles’ anger, the panic and anxiety and frustrated need to bring order to things. He’s seen Stiles look for enemies everywhere.

Derek’s no posterboy for psychological wellness, but he’s got a few years on Stiles in the trauma recovery department, and he knows what he’s feeling, knows he’ll get through it.

That would all be easier, of course, if he had even a moment’s peace from supernatural clusterfucks taking hold of him.

Derek sits in the Camaro with little fox Stiles for a good five minutes, just silently watching him explore and sniff and pounce playfully in the seat landing nosefirst. When he reaches out to touch him, Stiles narrows his eyes in an unsettlingly human gesture, then accepts Derek’s touch so easily it actually makes Derek huff in relief and smile. Stiles pushes his soft head into Derek’s palm, pointy face melting into a closed-eyed grin. He paws at Derek’s hand, pressing it down to the car’s seat as though he’s victoriously caught it, pinning it down, and then nips at his fingertips. He looks up at Derek, yowls in an unsettling demand, then nips at his fingers a little more sharply.

Derek isn’t sure how he knows what Stiles wants, but a moment later he’s letting his claws grow, and Stiles goes through the roof - bouncing and yipping, pretending to dodge and attack them excitedly.

Derek frowns at the confusion this brings. Because it implies Stiles acknowledges that Derek is a were, and also that Derek is a friend and in no way a real threat - despite his position on the hierarchy of apex predators. Derek needs to figure out how much of Stiles he can reach, how much of him and his human brain is accessible in this form.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He thumbs through until he gets to his voicemail and lays it down on the seat, pressing play.

**_Derek, it’s Sheriff Stilinski. I know you’re already working with Scott-_ **

The effect of the Sheriff’s voice is almost immediate. The fox freezes, and then focuses solely on the phone; he all but screeches, springing into a pounce and scratching at the phone in a frenzy.

And Derek knew. He knew this was him. But now he knows. And he looks at Stiles, soft and fluffy and wild, and thinks, again, “Oh shit.”

Stiles whines as the Sheriff’s message ends and the phone goes dark. He paws pathetically at it and whimpers out a high-pitched cry, looking up at Derek and Derek will never admit it but he almost winces.

“How about we take you to see the real thing?” Derek asks.

Stiles doesn’t give any indication that he understands, but the sound of Derek’s voice seems to intrigue him enough to stop the crying.

It’s only when they pull up outside the Stilinski house that Derek realizes he didn’t give anyone the heads-up. It’s also when he realizes that he’s got a wild fox loose in his car, that he’s got to transport subtly into the Sheriff’s suburban house.

Stiles is up, front paws on the door, as he looks out the window at the house. It’s a good sign, Derek thinks, that he’s quiet and still. He hopes it means he’s contemplating, that something is familiar.

“Ok look,” he starts, and Stiles turns, diligently sits and looks at him, “I’m gonna pick you up and carry you into your house. Do not screech,” Derek points a threatening finger at him. Stiles snaps at his finger but only grunts when Derek snatches him up. “Suck it up,” Derek grumbles and Stiles nips at his coat in retaliation. Derek peers out the window and notices some of the neighbors out and about. He sighs and unceremoniously stuffs Stiles into his coat, zipping it up to contain him. He tucks his arm in to keep Stiles from falling out of the bottom and stalks up to the Sheriff’s house, where he lets himself in without a knock. He can hear some of the pack inside talking. When he stalks into the kitchen Scott’s head snaps up and his eyes glow red, “Stiles? Where is he? You saw him?”

His nose is twitching, so Derek knows he smells him too, and he’s relived for the third confirmation because it’s just occurred to him what a clusterfuck it would have been if he was merely having a psychotic break and brought a wild fox he claimed to be Noah’s son into his house during this time of fear and high stress.

“In a manner of speaking,” Derek grumbles.

“Well where is he?” The sheriff steps forward.

Derek looks at them all a moment, knows there isn’t anything he can say to make this less... whatever this is.He unzips his jacket, and Stiles’ head pops out, mouth open, tongue lagging.

They all stare at him.

Scott blinks, “Wha....”

Lydia stares at Stiles and says, “Oh, my God.”

The sheriff shifts in frustration, hands going to his hips impatiently, “I don’t understand - what are you telling me?”

“That...” Scott points, face dumb with shock, “That’s _Stiles_!”

“Yeah,” Derek concedes. “He was at the house. Sitting on the front porch.”

The sheriff runs his hand over his forehead and commands, “EXPLAIN.”

Derek merely shrugs.

“But - I don’t understand,” Scott add needlessly.

“Incredible,” Lydia whispers stepping closer, staring intensely.

“Did he get bitten? Is he like you?” Scott asks.

“No,” Derek says.

Lydia takes another step forward and Stiles hisses, teeth bared. She yelps, stepping back. Scott tries his luck, and is met with much the same. When the Sheriff comes forward, Stiles doesn’t hiss or growl, but he vibrates threateningly, ducking his head in a submissive gesture.

When Scott reaches his hand toward him Stiles goes nearly feral - growling and snapping his little jaws. Scott pulls away, startled, and manages to look both hurt and personally offended.

Derek chides, “ _Hush_ ,” and Stiles reluctantly calms right down, relaxing into Derek’s coat.

“It’s like he imprinted on you, like a baby duck,” Lydia says.

“I don’t understand - we’ve been friends for like a million years! Why didn’t he imprint on me!?”

“Because that’s not how that works?” Lydia side-eyes Scott.

Derek shrugs again, trying to tamp down on the bizarre and inappropriate burn of pride he feels being the only one, the special one, the one Stiles chose. “I was the one who found him,” Derek offers flatly. “Maybe it’s because I’m evolved,” Derek says, not really sure he even believes that at all. He’s distracted, watching Stiles yawn. It’s fucking adorable.

“He said casually,” Lydia remarks.

Derek glares. “It’s the innateness of the wolf - I’m born, not bitten. And evolved. Maybe he can sense it.”

“You think he can tell that?” Scott stares at Stiles like he’s an alien, “That you’re... _evolved_.” The word always sounds odd coming out of Scott’s mouth, a little bitter, maybe derisive but also tinged with awe. Derek doesn’t bring it up and he never will. Instead he just shrugs. “Wait - you can tell that? Whether werewolves are like you?” Scott surmises. Derek shrugs again.

“Wow. So verbose,” Lydia drawls sharply.

Derek huffs in frustration and says, “Yes, I can tell the difference between bitten and born. Sometimes I can tell how long a wolf has been bitten. Down to the month, usually.”

“What’re you getting from him?” The Sheriff points at Stiles, ever the tactician.

Derek’s hand flexes where Stiles’ weight rests on it, and he scents the air delicately as Stiles glares up at him, as though he knows exactly what Derek is doing.“Magic.”

“So this is a curse,” Lydia’s eyes brighten as they always do with new information, “a spell.”

Derek absently strokes Stiles’ fur and says, “That would be my guess. The most disturbing follow-up then being how, and who. Why spring a trap like this on some human kid? And who has the power to do that?”

“Deaton,” Scott says suddenly.

Derek replies, mind buzzing about who could have done this, who could have _wanted_ this, “Deaton has a lot of skills, but he’s a Druid. Not a mage. He isn’t capable of this.

“ _No_ ,” Scott draws out like Derek is stupid, and it makes him bristle, which makes Stiles rumble a low growl in Scott’s direction. Scott, thankfully, is oblivious, blundering on, “But he might know! He could help us! We should bring Stiles to Deaton and let him take a look.”

Derek tenses. It’s not a bad idea, but he doesn’t trust Deaton, not fully. And when’re there’s magic around there’s bound to be trouble.Wolves and magic don’t mix. His grandmother had always joked about it with a sneaky smile, his mother nodding with an arch of the eyebrow. There’d been a story there, but Derek hadn’t pushed. Now he wishes he had.

“Ok,” the Sheriff looks at the fox that is his son, his voice all-business, “we need to figure this out. Now. Let’s go... see the veterinarian. Who is also a wizard,” the sheriff says drily, as though he can’t believe this is his fucking life.

In that moment, he reminds Derek so much of Stiles.

The Sheriff drives separately, stopping by the station on the way to direct some of his men to the woods. He knows anything they find might be useful in understanding what’s out there and what happened to Stiles. They’ll take any clues they can get.

But that leaves Derek driving Fox-Stiles, Lydia, Scott, and a recently arrived Liam to the Vet clinic in the Camaro.

The ride to Deaton’s is, in a word, chaos. Stiles claims the passenger seat as his territory - loudly and violently - and growls threateningly at Lydia, Scott and Liam from where he leans onto the center console the entire way. Derek tries very hard not to grin at the equally put-out and terrified expressions on their faces.

It isn’t until Scott leans forward to talk to Derek, starting off with something accusatorially rude as usual, and Stiles goes ballistic, only letting up when Scott backs off, that Derek’s stomach goes tight with a realization. This behavior, in Stiles, is _guarding_ behavior, like you see in younger pups when they’re first getting a handle on their wolf instincts and they’re way too protective and possessive over their loved ones.

He’s feeling that burn again and it’s throwing him off-balance.

When they get to the clinic, Derek holds onto Stiles while the other three scurry out of the car.

“Do me a favor,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles gazes up at him with big brown eyes, “don’t bite anyone. Well... Scott. You can bite Scott. A little bit. He’ll forgive you.”

Stiles smiles, a big toothy grin with his tongue lolling out and Derek can’t help but snort a laugh. “Come on,” he says and to his surprised Stiles jumps right into his jacket, burrowing into the warmth of Derek’s body and not giving a grumble as he’s jostled when Derek gets out of the car.

Derek is immediately on edge when he notices the teens gathered around the back door of the clinic, heads bowed around something.

“What is it?”

“A note,” Scott says, displaying it.

Derek snatches it roughly.

_**Scott,** _

__

_**We have an old acquaintance in town. I hope that the Hales and McCalls will come for tea.** _

__

_**-Alan** _

“He’s gone,” Scott says, voice drifting as he listens to the sounds of the clinic. “He still has procedures scheduled. He wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t...” He turns to face Derek head on, fixing his posture, projecting his Alpha-ness as he does whenever he’s ready to launch into a problem head-on. “What does it mean?” He asks Derek, head jerking toward the note.

“Well he mentions the Hales by name, so he’s clearly invoking you or your family’s knowledge of something,” Lydia asserts.

“An old acquaintance,” Derek whispers to himself, and then it clicks into place. “Come for tea. Satomi.”

“Satomi - the Alpha?” Liam asks, an edge of worry creeping into his voice. In his limited experience, encounters with older, powerful werewolves are often followed by disaster. Her involvement doesn’t necessarily put Derek at ease either, all thought she may be.

Scott looks at Derek, nods indicating he trusts his judgement, and says, “That’s where we go next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually think I’m really liking this one. Fox Stiles is just.... so effing cute.


	7. DAY SEVEN - You and me and everything.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cora’s always had this power over Derek, in large part because he feels such a desperate need to be there for her, to make it all up to her. Like that’s possible. So when she comes crashing back into their lives, the only thing Stiles can do is hang back, let Derek do what he needs, and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly drunk for my Birthday. Hopefully I won’t read through this tomorrow and cringe.

With the quiet of the apartment and the steady, hypnotic patter of the rain, Stiles can almost pretend to be calm.

Almost.

He’s managed to keep his leg from bouncing, has his usually-fidgety hands strapped around his humongous Death Star mug.

He’s doing his least favorite thing. Waiting.

He could pretend he’s doing something else, but what’s the point. He’s waiting. Waiting for Derek to get back, waiting for the verdict on what will become of their new found stability now that Cora’s back in the picture.

Derek and Stiles had ensconced themselves safely in mostly-normal life for almost four years, living and existing as a unit as Stiles finished his degree and Derek re-learned how to be a person. It was comfortable and safe and the re-introduction of Cora Hale was a red flag if ever Stiles saw one.

After the big prize-fight with Gerard and Monroe, Cora and Derek had fallen out, _hard_. She had, apparently, been frustrated and angry with him ever since she’d moved back to South America and he had decided, somewhat nebulously, not to join her. The fact that he not only never followed her to what she promised was a better home, a safer home, where they could become family again, but had also left her utterly in the dark about his search for Kate Argent and ultimately his participation in the war to come with not only Kate but Gerard himself, she was furious.

Derek had decided, as he often had then, to keep her out of it as much as possible in order to keep her safe. But if there is one thing all Hales have in common, it’s that they don’t like other people making their decisions for them.

Unkind words were exchanged - a barrage of them, almost entirely from Cora’s side of the argument and some of them a touch too cruel to be forgotten, in Stiles’ opinion.

Stiles had asked, a few months after the events leading to Gerard’s death (may he rot in a hole) where Cora was, and why Derek wasn’t with her. He hadn’t expected the degree of honesty he received. Derek was quiet a long moment, and Stiles was half-way through informing him that he didn’t have to tell him if he didn’t want, when Derek informed him quietly and honestly that things were broken between them. Derek had broken things between them. And he didn’t think they’d ever be repaired.

Stiles didn’t have words for that. He wasn’t programmed for this level of sincerity from Derek. So he did the only thing he could think of, he reached out and wrapped his hand around Derek’s forearm, and just... held. And Derek talked. He talked for hours, about how Cora looks different than he remembers, smells different than he remembers, about the guilt of second-guessing if it was really her, about both wanting to spend every minute watching out for her for the rest of his life and wanting to go back to not knowing she was out there. He felt guilty about that too. About how a few weeks of teenaged stupidity lead to so much destruction that aside from two other severely damaged people, his entire family is dead and it doesn’t matter how much he evolves or how much he recovers - they’ll always be dead and it’ll always be his fault. He talks about Peter and how much he wants to love him, to trust him, and how he just can’t seem to manage it. Because Peter was always manipulative, but now he’s broken; and Derek did that too. Peter and Cora could barely stand to be in a room together, the only bandaid between them being Derek and he couldn’t stand the responsibility of being the conduit, of being both the reason and the solution to such an epic inability for two people to love each other in the face of his own idiotic machinations. He talks about how he knew, when he was doing it, that leaving Cora out in the battle against Gerard would hurt things between them. But he hasn’t been able to weigh what moves are right in years.

Stiles doesn’t defend him. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He just squeezes when he feels Derek needs it, lets up when he needs space.

After that night Stiles and Derek talk a lot more. Stiles is honest when he feels like nothing is real, like paranoia is swallowing him whole or when he hasn’t slept in days. Derek talks when he can’t untangle something in his mind - why he’s done something he probably shouldn’t or why he’s never said out loud that he almost vomits when he smells Kate’s perfume.

Suddenly, where there was once superficial aggravation and snark, there was depth and understanding and patience. Stiles stopped asking when Derek was moving on, where he was headed, and Derek stopped mentioning it.

The future, reality, Derek’s former plans to only crash on Stiles’ couch for a few weeks - these were the only things they could not talk about.

The first time Stiles kissed him they were in the kitchen, Derek was stirring sauce in a slightly warped Goodwill pan with a wooden spoon, while holding Stiles’ most recent Romantic Poets paper in the other hand pontificating derisively on the Professor’s judgement of Stiles’ work.

There wasn’t any planning, or forethought.

There was only Derek, standing there with a dish towel over his shoulder and a blush in his cheeks from standing over the stove, his clever mind at work in service of defending Stiles’ own mind. And that’s was it.

Stiles walked over, pressed himself up against Derek’s side, and when Derek turned to look at him he held his face, checked his eyes for panic or retreat, and found none. So he kissed him.

They kissed for a long while, Derek melting into it and their bodies fitting together so well, until Stiles was desperate for breath and he pulled away, scanning Derek’s face, memorizing him.

“This ok?” He’d asked, voice quiet.

Derek’s eyes were tracking Stiles lips and he nodded distractedly, before saying, “Yeah.”

Later that night, when they were eating slightly over cooked spaghetti, Stiles said, “You know I’m kind of a _one girl kinda guy_.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean. I’m kind of... all or nothing in the relationship department. I’ve tried, you know... not being so fucking extra. But,” he shrugs. “Just... I want you to know that I -”

“Me too,” Derek says, his voice rough.

Strangely, they didn’t talk about it much after that. Derek stayed, and they had hundreds more spaghetti dinners and hundreds more difficult conversations mixed with funny ones and easy ones and angry ones too. But Stiles never felt that Derek was going to leave, and Derek never felt that Stiles wanted him to.

Now it’s been three more years, Stiles is about to finish his degree, Derek has a job and a social security card and enters their shared home through the actual apartment door. Derek has cut down largely on his fire escape skulking time. Derek has been to Stilinski Christmases and they have shared the experience of enduring the judgement turned eventual teasing from their pack. Derek has rounded out their cutlery collection and Stiles has craftily padded out the wall of their bedroom after they received an extremely awkward visit from their landlord due to a noise complaint.

Stiles would dare say they’re nearly happy. Of course monsters pop-up, issues in Beacon Hills seem to be arising every now and then as expected, and they are both stubborn assholes who like to be right so that’s a thrill. They’ve been through years of growing and maturing and thank god, talking, but still there’s something that tears at Derek.

Cora.

Derek’s made peace with Peter and who he is and the fact that that is who he’ll more than likely always be, to an extent. But he’s never had the chance to make peace with Cora. He’s reached out, but the responses are thin. Sometimes she ignores him entirely, sometimes her response is a heavily cutting _Wish you were here_ scrawled across a South American postcard. When Derek receives those, it’s like he’s seen a ghost, like he’s been told flatly he’s selfish and wrong, and Stiles can only be there as Derek struggles to re-find his footing for a full day afterward.

Whenever those sarcastic, cruel cards come Stiles wants to punch Cora in her fucking face.

Maybe Derek was wrong not to go with her when she said she wanted him to, or in the very least maybe she isn’t wrong for feeling that way. But Stiles can’t help but feel equal parts pity and rage at the severity of Derek’s regression every time he sends a three page letter, and gets back a dirty, unsigned postcard with a snarky one-liner.

Derek is just barely over the last one when he gets a call that sends him ashen white. “Cora...” he says with awe, and Stiles’ heart sinks. _Don’t break him_ , he prays. _Oh God - don’t be a bitch_ \- “Uh yeah, sure. ... Whenever you want. ... Of course I have a job,” he snips, sounding a little more like himself, which is a good sign, “but, I can be available. Whenever you need.”

Stiles winces because its too honest. Derek would drop everything, leave everything he’s built for himself, at a mere whisper from Cora. And yeah, Stiles is nervous. Derek hangs up and Stiles waits, like a good boyfriend, while he gathers his thoughts. “She’s in town,” Derek says, not looking at him.

“You’re going to meet up?”

Derek nods. “In an hour,” he says, eyes meeting Stiles’ in a panic.

“Ok,” Stiles says as calmly as he can. “That’s good, right? I mean... that’s... good.”

Derek narrows his eyes, “You don’t sound sure.”

“No! No, it’s... it’s good. I’m just...” Derek looks almost fragile waiting for the end of that sentence. “I’ll be here,” Stiles offers.

Derek gives him a tense smile, kisses him, then nearly runs down the hall to the shower. He scrubs himself pink and runs around like a lunatic in the bedroom, throwing on five different combinations of jeans and sweaters before he finally comes rushing out to the kitchen looking clean and handsome and slightly manic.

“You look good,” Stiles offers, handing Derek his keys. He can barely stomach how heart-breaking it is that Derek is so desperate to make a good impression, on his own little sister.

“Thanks,” he takes the keys, looking down at them, suddenly still, hesitating.

“Derek,” Stiles starts but Derek merely nods concisely and hustles out the door.

So now, Stiles is waiting. Listening to the rain.

Waiting for who knows how long to be greeted with who knows what when Derek comes back through that door. _If_ Derek comes back through that door. Stiles would like to have more faith in him than that but Coras has this hold over him, this power to make Derek fragile and malleable that Stiles hates. If she begs him to leave, Stiles knows, Derek will go. He will feel he has no other choice.

So Stiles just waits.

Two endless hours go by before he hears the door open and somehow, he isn’t able to get up. Everything in him wants to run to Derek, to throw himself into his arms and clutch him tight and tell him that he’s his, he doesn’t get to go. But he can’t. He’s too scared. So again, he waits.

He hears the keys get set down. Hears Derek’s footsteps.

He doesn’t look at him as he comes in, Stiles doesn’t want to see the look on his face if he’s here to say goodbye.

Derek sits like he’s collapsing next to him on the bed, elbows resting on his knees, pressing himself to Stiles from shoulder to knee. He’s always so warm - God Stiles will miss that so much if he goes.

“How did it go?”

Derek rubs a hand through his hair, a gesture Stiles thinks he’s adopted from him. It hurts. “Ok,” Derek says quietly. “It was... weird?”

“Weird?”

“It was like... she called me to meet her at this cafe and when I got there we just... had coffee...” he says it like it’s the most bizarre thing that could have transpired between them. “I mean... we drank coffee and she ate a scone and we... talked? But not really. We talked like we see each other every week and it was no big deal.”

“Oh,” Stiles blinks in surprise.

“Yeah. Oh. It was like... like she travelled several thousand miles to act like we were normal.”

“So,” Stiles shakes his head, needing clarification, “so nothing’s wrong? There’s no, like... emergency?”

Derek shakes his head, “No. She just wanted to catch up. I think... I don’t know. I don’t want to be too optimistic, but, maybe she wants to,” he shrugs not knowing how to put words to the idea of becoming family again. And the idea of that, while great, sends a lance of fear through Stiles. Derek must notice because he turns to better look at him and says, “You ok? You look more nervous than me.”

Stiles could lie. He probably should. But they made a sort of pact not to feed each other the usual bullshit anymore, and it’s a delicate trust he has no intention of breaking. So he doesn’t lie.

“I don’t think... I don’t think the whole time you’ve lived here, since we started this, I don’t think I’ve ever been more acutely terrified that you’ll leave.”

Derek pops up, suddenly sitting upright, and looks at him with narrowed eyes. “You thought I’d leave?”

Stiles shrugs, swallows with difficulty around the lump in his throat. “I know how much she means to you. If she needed you...” Stiles tries to blink back the heat in his eyes and he thinks he’s pretty successful. “I would understand. If you needed... if you needed...”

Derek huffs, frustrated. “You’re and idiot,” he bites.

“What!? I’m trying to be mature here!”

“You’re a very adult idiot.”

Stiles hackles raise, as they always have with derek, fast and hot. “It’s not totally beyond the realm of comprehension that Cora would say jump and you’d scream _how high_ from the bridge you were already swan-diving off of, Derek,” he snaps. “It’s like living with a fucking ghost for a week after you hear from her. You have unfinished business - don’t treat me like I’m an asshole for knowing that!”

“You are an asshole!”

“FOR WHAT!?”

Suddenly Stiles’ world is off-kilter and he’s upended onto the bed, flat on his back, and Derek is kissing him like he wants to murder him - like what Stiles thought kissing Derek would be like back when he was seventeen. When Derek pulls back his eyes are burning blue and Stiles is out of breath.

“The fuck, Derek,” he mutters.

“I’m not leaving you,” Derek growls. “I wouldn’t leave you.”

It sounds more like a threat than a promise and that should maybe be a red flag for Stiles but instead he just likes it. “Ok...?” he says, at a loss.

When that answer doesn’t satisfy him, Derek grunts a growl and adjusts his weight until he’s pinning Stiles’ wrists to the mattress. He hovers just over him and Stiles brain always kind of short circuits when he does this but there’s something in Derek’s face, in the tension of his body, that helps Stiles stay sharp. Derek waits until he has his full attention and then states, “Wolves don’t leave their mates.”

Stiles blinks.

“Oh.” He blinks again, does the math, then says softly, “Oh.”

“Oh,” Derek replies flatly, but he doesn’t get another word out before Stiles surges up, kissing him hungrily.

Later that night when they’re lying in bed Derek checks his email to see they’ve got another noise complaint. He grimaces, put-out, and stiles snorts. “ **Learn to love it Mrs. Klepper,** ” he shouts at the wall, “ **it’s not gonna stop anytime soon!** ”

Derek chuckles against his throat. “That’s gonna get us a visit from the super.”

“You’ll have to defend my honor,” Stiles says cheekily, “we’re werewolf married now.”

Derek pulls back to quirk a brow at him.

“Yyyyep,” Stiles says, snuggling down into bed, “no take-backs.”

Derek chuckles as he snuggles down with him, wrapping his arms around him, and Stiles’ heart feels full at the realization that it is no longer a foreign sound. The sound and touch and reality of Derek is familiar and real and constant. And he feels like for the past four years he has been, unbeknownst to himself, waiting to feel just this.


	8. DAY EIGHT - The difference between a Stare and a Gaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the tropes for Stiles to have to suffer through, Fake Relationship is a little cruel in his opinion.

Stiles’ life is already enough like a Teen Novel he isn’t really sure how the possibility of this particular trope hadn’t bit him in the ass yet. Especially since his lust for Derek has developed into a full-blown love-adjacent crush for the ages, he definitely should have seen this one coming.

I mean...

_Fake Relationship_.

Really? Fucking really? Of all of the indignities and tortures Stiles has had to endure there’s a particular kind of comedic cruelty to this one. He’s been beaten and mind-fucked and nearly murdered plenty of times and he’s almost managed to come out of it a fairly stable human being. But the way he feels for Derek is achy and dangerous and **_private._** Yet, here he is, once again, being totally chain-jerked by the universe. It turns out, in light of recent disasters in Beacon Hills, and as it turns out in a few other communities positioned along ley lines, the supernatural and werewolf powers that be have found in within their collective selves to lay down their egos and voice the need for some sort of... tribunal. More of a community meeting, than a tribunal really, but a bunch of werewolves digging up centuries old tradition in order to socially demand that the elder bloodlines and their packs meet at this random fucking off-brand Best Western to chat about the state of things requires a title a little more ominous, in Stiles’ opinion. When he had likened the near-medieval invite to the Volturi Lydia and Erica had each nodded in like, and that was not a good sign in Stiles’ opinion. Derek was liberal with his memories of custom, as was Peter who had somehow managed to find out without any of them telling him which irked Stiles to no end. Mainly because Peter’s cleverness in general really irked Stiles. Not only because he used his considerable powers too often for evil, but because Stiles didn’t like the glint in Peter’s eye whenever Stiles happened to see Peter see him watch Derek for extended periods of time with god know what expression on his face. The idea of Peter turning that calculating mind toward him and his personal feelings made Stiles feel naked and furious, which... not a great combination.

Basically what they had learned from the combines memories of the remaining Hales, was that it had been a hot minute since the packs of Washington, Oregon and California had met in any form or fashion and they were wildly out of touch with one another. As it turns out, the Hales were not the only family to face tragedy at the hand of Gerard Argent and his fanatics, though they were the most thoroughly decimated. It’s been over a decade since every pack went on the defense against hunters, and more recently against the force of magic that was the Nemeton, piping a whole lot of crazy throughout the state by way of the ley lines.

Anyway, the point of this is, that every other pack and coven has a representative of a major bloodline that is backed up by a second, as is traditional, and sending Derek in the Darach’s Pit all by his lonesome is about the worst possible plan ever. Especially since, as of about scream-o-clock last night, Lydia is pretty sure one of them is a murderer that plans to orchestrate a real _and there there were none_ situation here.

Hence, Derek needing a life partner who could believeably be both somehow romantically interested in Derek and useful to the pack in sleuthing out the danger while seeming somewhat amiable. 

Enter poor witless Stiles Stilinski who really thought he was going to be stalking all comers and goers of this event from the adjoining room which he helped to set up with computers and very (illegally) in-depth files on their competition. He brought snacks and headphones and everything. But no.

He’s apparently been unanimously voted Derek’s fake life partner, which is a role that Stiles absolutely does not want to play, by any means for a myriad of reasons not least of which that if Derek behaves like a put-out asshole over having to pretend to be interested in him Stiles is pretty sure he’ll collapse on himself like a black hole. This trope is a nightmare. If they end up sharing a bed, **_for reasons_** , Stiles is going to move to Oregon and live on a hippie commune and change his name to, like... Sunflower Simmons. Because the romcom of it is all too much and a special kind of _ouch_ when he considers that _Derek straighty mcstraightpants stiles you’re annoying me get out of my face Hale_ will not be sweeping him off his feet at the end of this clusterfuck. So it really would be better if this responsibility fell to someone else. As Stiles has repeatedly attempted to tell them.

“OK but why can’t like... Erica be your fake lover!?”

Erica snorts and Derek shoots her a glare that sends her shrinking back behind Boyd’s shoulder.

“He needs a second, not a Beta,” Lydia offers, barely paying him any mind as she’s digging through a bag

“Ok,” Stiles argues, “then why not Boyd?”

Derek and Boyd look at each other like they are considering the possibility tactically but Lydia and Erica both snort.

“Um, no offense to your performing skills Boyd. But no one is going to believe that Derek is banging him.”

“But they’ll believe he’s banging me!?”

Erica smirks suggestively, Lydia just ignores him to fiddle with the equipment she is now extracting from the bag, Scott and Boyd make equally apologetic grimaces. Derek keeps so still and expressionless Stiles is concerned he’s turned to stone.

“Ok,” Stiles shifts irritably, “my masculinity is not hurt by that because I am not a homophobic asshole.”

Erica snorts, “I would hope not.”

Before Stiles can respond Lydia pops up with a had full of wires. “Ok. We’re good.” She cocks her head toward the adjoining room. “Go get ready.” Stiles stares at her, then swivels his head around, eyebrows high. Lydia rolls her eyes and says, “Go, Stiles,” and sheepdogs him toward the adjoining door.

“What - what the hell!? What about him!? He doesn’t have to change?” He gestures uncoordinatedly toward Derek.

They all look over at Derek and then back to Lydia. She tilts her head, pouts, thinking, and says, “I’ll deal with him.”

Stiles only has time to see Derek’s indignant scowl before Lydia shoves him through to the adjoining room and says, “You’re outfit is in the garment bag, hanging in the closet.”

The door closes firmly behind her and Stiles mutters to himself, “Garment bag?”

Which is of course when he turns and sees it. He sighs, unzips the bag and assesses the damage. It’s nothing crazy, in fact it’s normal enough he wonders why she even bothered. There’s a note pinned to the outside that says:

SHOWER FIRST.

He heads to the bathroom where, in the shower, there is a dark bottle of body wash with another note saying:

USE THIS.

He does and he has to admit, there’s something hypnotic and nostalgic about the clean masculine scent. It’s clearly more expensive than the two-in-one grocery store stuff Stiles buys for him and his Dad and he figures, _in for a penny_ , and uses a _lot_.

When he pulls a towel down another note falls that says:

DO YOUR HAIR.

PRODUCT ON THE COUNTER.

He rolls his eyes when he sees the brush and little tube, this is getting ridiculous. But he does it, rather than risk the wrath of Lydia. And then he dresses as instructed: high-end flat-front brown slacks, a remarkably snug and yet somehow still fitting his body black button-up dress shirt, some ridiculous brown and black argyle socks and (thank god) his own chucks. He gets himself ready and looks into the full length hotel mirror, pausing. It’s hard for him to think of himself positively, in terms of physical attractiveness; he always feels a little too scrawny, or pudgy, or boyish - gawky - where it seems everyone around him is now genetically modified to have perfect hairless skin and a rock hard body all the time. It’s like being werewolves makes them innately attractive and cool and it sometimes makes Stiles painfully self-conscious. Lydia’s fashion looks good, he has to admit, but the idea of it being on him, on _his body_ , makes him feel... embarrassed. Like he can’t dare appreciate the visual improvement because he’ll walk into the next room and garner nothing but a laugh. It hurts more than it should, to know that this is as good as it gets and he has to go walk into a room of pubescent supermodels. And Derek. Derek who could wear sweatpants and a gas station undershirt and look better than Stiles could ever dream. Derek who won’t see anything but pain in the ass awkward Stiles in the false-wrapping of good clothes and will definitely not fall in love with him for it. It’s shitty that his brain even lets him think that, but oh well. There’s nothing left to do and he can’t chicken out now. So he just sighs, and rolls his shoulders, and gets ready to be the butt of the joke.

The room is blissfully mostly empty when he comes back in. The other werewolves are all gone, milling about and socializing with the other packs’ members down in the ballroom at this point, but Derek is standing there in his usual black jeans and v-neck. They’re a little classed up - you know, higher end and with no blood - but he looks mostly the same as always.

Which is unfortunate and a blessing all at once because Derek pretty much always looks beautiful to Stiles. 

When Derek turns, his eyes catch on Stiles and he seems to go blank for a moment, utterly still. More out of self-consciousness and stupidity than any desire for an actual answer Stiles says, “What do you think? Do I look good enough to be your mate?”

Derek stares at him, mouth open for a fraction of a moment before he draws up to his full height and scoffs, shooting a sarcastic “yeah” over his shoulder before nearly mowing down Lydia on his way out.“There you are,” Lydia says brightly, eclipsed by Derek barking, “Hurry up,” before the door slams behind him.

Stiles fights the unreasonable lump in his throat. It’s stupid. He knew before this started Derek would never, could never love him and acting like a wounded child every time that fact was confirmed and Derek was, you know... _Derek_ \- dismissive, rude, generally lacking in any form of appreciation or affection - was gonna make this impossible. That’s why he didn’t want to fucking do this is the first place. He shouldn’t have to, but, for the good of the pack he supposes he can get his heart crushed on a semi-regular basis if it helps keep them alive.

So he soldiers on.

He raises his arms and comically displays himself for Lydia who kindly doesn’t mention the slight glassiness to his eyes. She does him the favor of pretending not to notice and puts her hands on her hips, looking him over. “You buttoned your shirt all the way up.”

“Oh, yeah - you didn’t leave me a tie,” he says, voice a little too quiet.

She sighs on an eyeroll, steps in close to him and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Not long ago that would have sent him into a frenzy. Now he just feels kind of hollow.

“There,” she says when the top two buttons are undone, her hands a warm weight on his shoulders. “Now you’re ready.”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“You look very handsome Stiles,” she says sincerely.

He scoffs, “yeah.”

“Hey,” she smacks his shoulder, “you do. And trust me,” she says in that dangerously pretty tone she has when she’s only playing at not knowing everything, “I wasn’t the only one who noticed.”

“Don’t,” Stiles snaps before he can stop himself. She draws back to look at him surprised, and he rubs his forehead with shaking fingers as he says, “Sorry. I’m not - just, sorry.”

“I’ve been reading a lot about werewolf pack hierarchy. We all have,” she says, seemingly out of nowhere.

“...Ok.”

“Our pack has been surprisingly diligent in absorbing the information,” she continues easily, “we all understand the variations and importances of different roles within the pack. Which is why it was so easy to identify you as Derek’s second.”

Stiles stares at her, face blank.

“Whatever Derek’s endless emotional problems are, you were the unanimous choice to play the Second for a reason. Reasons that have nothing to do with Derek. You’re the tactician. You’re brave and clever and the only one whose judgement Derek trusts over his own. Whatever else feels off between you, know that. You have power here, Stiles. In ways I don’t think you realize.You,” she looks him in the eyes, “are indispensable. You are the core of this pack. Not Scott. Not Derek. You. And no Alpha, no matter how handsome and bull-headed, takes that worth from you.”

Stiles can’t say anything. He surges forward and hugs her. She hugs him back tight, until finally she has to pull away and she aloofly wipes at her cheek before smacking his ass and saying, “Alright, get in there and sleuth!”

“You got it!” He’s out to the hallway in a shot, completely ignoring Derek in favor of making it to the elevator. Derek catches up no problem, of course.

“Took you long enough.”

“Yeah yeah,” Stiles blows him off, focused on the task at hand. He can feel Derek staring at him as they descend to the Lobby, sense the way Derek’s palms itch in the way he tenses and releases his fists in the corner of Stiles’ vision. But Stiles stands tall, ignores him, stays strong in his purpose and wraps the knowledge of his worth around himself like armor.

By the time the elevator dings and the doors slide open, Derek is nearly vibrating and Stiles feels borderline invincible.

He grabs Derek’s wrist and tows him toward the lobby. It says something about how off-guard he’s taken him that Derek nearly stumbles in order to follow.

They’re headed into the lion’s den to be weighed and measured by a veritable army of their peers, all older and more established, one of whom is giving off serious serial murderer vibes. So while Stiles’ heart may be sore and tired, his mind an intent are sharp. And Lydia’s right, he may love Derek, but even that can’t break Stiles of his calculative mind and cunning eye. So as they barrel into trouble Stiles knows they’ve got eachother’s backs and they’ll do whatever they need to to get through this. The fallout isn’t something he can think about.

Yet.

When they reach the double doors to the “ballroom” Stiles looks at Derek and says, “Ready?”

Derek nods once, and Stiles interlaces their fingers and Derek lets him. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was so rushed! I hope it’s not insane!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who’s reading! I hope you’re liking these.


	9. DAY NINE - Triskele

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets the Triskele tattooed over his heart.

In retrospect, not talking to Derek before he did this might have been a mistake.

“This is crazy. Was this crazy? Oh my god - I’m going to have to change my name and move to like... Guam.”

“Guam?”

“It’s a place, Scotty.”

I know it’s a-” Scott cuts himself off with a sigh. “Stiles, Derek loves you. He’s not gonna freak out. ...Probably.”

Stiles glares at him. “You are the worst best friend-”

“Lies,” Scott says cheerily.

“The worst,” Stiles mutters, slumping in his seat, acutely aware of the still sensitive feeling of the skin over his heart.

“I’m right though. You couldn’t do anything wrong in Derek’s eyes. It’s actually really annoying.” Stiles rolls his eyes, but it always gives him a warm, secret joy when other members of the pack verbalize how Derek sets him apart. In Stiles’ mind, how much Derek lets him get away with holds a direct correlation to his affection for him. Stiles is the only one who gets to back-talk him, or give him cutesy nick-names, or go into all his personal living spaces and just touch stuff. And he gets away with it, because Derek loves him. It feels really good, knowing that.

“I’m just glad Derek gifted me the airport pick-up duties so I could have forty five minutes with you before you guys lock yourselves into his bedroom for the next forever.”

“Mm,” Stiles says with a waggle of eyebrows. Stiles smacks him wherever he can reach while driving and shouts, “Ew, dude!”

“Forever sounds like a challenge-”

“Fine, a week.”

“Challenge accepted,” Stiles says to the roll of Scott’s eyes.

“Five days tops.”

“Speak of tops-”

“Oh my god no!”

Stiles cackles and Scott smiles wide as he continues to protest for another quarter mile. The rest of the drive is blissfully relaxing. It’s just Scott and Stiles, as it’s always been.

Rolling down the drive to the re-built Hale house always feels so good. It feels so new sometimes still, magical with potential, to have a safe place for the pack and a re-build home for Derek.

“God I missed this place.”

Scott rolls his eyes, “Dude it was three weeks.”

“Three long, lonely, Derek-less weeks without this beautiful, perfect, exquisitely repaired house,” Stiles says loudly, overtly flattering, knowing Derek can hear him.

“Ugh,” Scott complains, hauling Stiles’ bag out. “You guys are gross.”

“You can go now, Scott,” Derek says from mere feet away. Stiles jerks and jumps in surprise, as he always does when Derek sneaks up on him, which is, in large part, why Derek does it. Startling Stiles never seems to get old for him.

“What, no tip?” Scott pouts.

“You’re about to catch a glimpse of the tip if you don’t get out of here-”

“Ew! Dude!” Scott chucks Stiles’ hoodie at him and jumps back into his car, throwing them the finger as he drives away.

“That was classy,” Derek deadpans.

“Scott deserves that and so much worse for all the girl talk I’e suffered through over the years.”

Derek smiles, and Stiles can’t even think. He just launches into his personal bubble face-first. He’s lucky Derek has such quick reflexes or he might have broken both their teeth. Derek kisses him back hard, hungry, hands gripping and grasping tight as he pulls Stiles into the house.

“Mm-fff-bags,” he barely manages to say between kisses.

“Leave them,” Derek growls, yanking Stiles against his body and dragging him though the house to the bedroom.

“Fuck yes,” Stiles agrees, yanking Derek’s shirt up a little too roughly and making a frustrated sound when it takes a bit of coordination to get it off. As soon as it is they’re kissing again, moving in a distracted lumber toward the bed.

Derek scrapes his beard against Stiles’ throat in that way that makes Stiles’ hands clench against his will and he lets out a choked sound when derek kisses his throat. He nips and sucks and mouths from Stiles’ collarbone to jaw until Stiles knows it must be pink and blotchy. “Missed you,” Derek growls into his throat.

Stiles shivers. Derek’s hands go to pull up his shirt and Stiles’ hands stop him. Derek looks at him with carefully assessing eyes, the concern clear on his face when Stiles’ hands hold his own still.

Stiles knows his heart must be hammering, because Derek presses his lips to the center of his chest like he does every time Stiles is too worked up or has had too much adderall and he feels like his mind is spinning and his heart racing.

“You ok?” Derek asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern. And god, the way he actually lets emotion into his voice, actually makes facial expressions in front of Stiles, nearly takes his legs out from under him sometimes. There’s nothing more magical than Derek being a real boy.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, running his fingers through Derek’s hair, scratching at his nape out of habit, in that way Derek likes. Derek’s head tips back, eyes closing, and its such a sign of innate trust.

“I love you, you know,” Stiles tells him quietly. Derek’s head pops forward and his eyes are big and green as he looks at him, scanning his face. It isn’t the first time he’s said it but it always seems to startle Derek. “I do. Which is why... I did something, while I was away. For you. Well, for me. It’s mine and it’s for me but, it’s for you.”

Derek tilts his head in such a canine quirk of curiosity that Stiles can’t help but smile. He pushes Derek’s shoulders just enough to give him the idea to sit, and then steps back from Derek’s hold, just far enough that he can’t reach, and Derek follows his lead, staying put and watching Stiles from his seat on the end of the bed.

When he takes off his shirt, he holds his breath.

The even, perfectly symmetrical blue-black lines of his Triskele tattoo look fresh and perfect against his skin. Almost like it isn’t real. But it is. Stiles’ very patient tattoo artist, who very kindly provided not one but two fidget spinners, can attest to it.

Stiles stands there, in front of Derek, bare-chested.

Derek’s face goes blank in that pretty way it does sometimes when he’s taken by surprise, and he goes still, eyes stuck on the permanent ink of Stiles’ triskele.

“Is it... is this ok?” Stiles asks, voice quiet, after a long silence stretches between them.

Derek’s eyes meet his much the same way they did when they were bare-chested together for the first time, like he’s taking in all the data but is beyond the ability of words. He stands smoothly, stepping into Stiles’ space. He presses his fingertips to the swirling edges, before flattening his hands and feeling the almost imperceptible rise of the ink with the pads of his fingers.

“What does it mean?” He asks, voice unbearably fragile.

“Uh,” Stiles rasps out, “Alpha, Beta, Omega-”

“Stiles,” Derek warns, and he looks at him with young, scared eyes.

Stiles takes a breath, lays his hand over Derek’s where it rests over the tattoo, “Whatever happens, you and me, we’re pack. More than pack. You’re my guy, Derek. And I love all of you - that includes past-you, now-you, and who you’re gonna be in the future.”

Stiles’ heart is banging chaotically in his chest but the look on Derek’s face is uncharted territory and he doesn’t want to push him, so he waits. Derek settles the tattoo under the center of his palm and leans in, kissing Stiles chastely. It feels special in a kind of a weird, magical way; like they’ve sealed something, or written themselves into an ancient tale somehow.

Then Derek leans down and presses his lips to the tattoo before tucking his face into the juncture of Stiles’ neck and shoulder and wrapping his arms around him, holding him tight. Stiles hugs him back, runs his hand through Derek’s hair roughly in time to the stroke of Derek’s thumb over the tattoo. After a long while standing there, holding each other and being comfortable together Stiles says, “I thought about getting you a ring but it felt kind of ridiculous. I don’t know, this just felt more... you.”

Derek snorts a laugh against his skin and Stiles twitches at the tickle.

“Maybe leave the ring-buying to me.”

Stiles’ hand tightens in his hair reflexively and Derek rumbles deep in his chest like a purr. “Yeah?” Stiles asks with barely any voice.

Derek’s hands sink down to hold firmly at Stiles’ hips as he leans upright and turns his head to catch Stiles’ hand with his lips and kisses his palm. “Yeah.”

Ultimately, Scott was a little short in his estimation of how long it would be before they left the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, oh excellent people of the internet.
> 
> As always, during these isolated times, comments and prompts are much appreciated. 
> 
> Stay well out there, my gender-neutral babes. <3


	10. DAY TEN - Is this real life?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has an emergency appendectomy, and speaks a lot of truth while he’s stony-bologna.

Rushing Stiles to the hospital is chaos. He claims he can drive and refuses to give up the Jeep keys while Scott panics threatening to throw him over his shoulder if he doesn’t give. Stiles just tells him to get his puppy ass in the passenger side while Derek snarks at Scott, “Sure, that won’t rupture it.”

They argue while Stiles makes his slow but dignified way to the Jeep. He has his hand on the door, but doesn’t manage to get it open before Derek steps way to close into his space and levels him with his circa sophomore year threatening-eyes.

“Either you can give me the keys, or I can rip a hole in your pants with my claws and take them.”

And Derek has come a long way as far as personability, but Stiles doesn’t entirely doubt him ad frankly, if he’s headed to the hospital he’d rather not show up with an exposed thigh that he cannot explain.

“Fine. Dictator.”

The drive was like that scene from Twister, when there’s debris flying and wind flowing and the car is cutting through cornfields at seventy miles an hour. Except, it kinda wasn’t like that at all. It seems high-drama because Stiles is laid out in the back with a stabbing ache in his side, a throbbing headache and what is a most definitely peaking fever. Scott’s looking back at him from between the seats like Stiles has been shot and is dying before his eyes. Derek’s jaw is set in that fierce determination he gets when he’s full-thrusters on a mission, and he’s driving Stiles’ Jeep like he was born to do it. Stiles has had some really choice fantasies about Derek having a somewhat controlling demeanor in the Jeep, some of the even featured Stiles laid out in the back seat. But funnily enough none of them included Stiles feeling an unrelenting pain in his side now reaching a what the fuck on the one to ten pain scale.

He doesnt’ really remember much about getting into the hospital aside from leaning heavily on Derek and laughing a little dizzily when Derek did the whole, “We need a Doctor!” Hero-yell while Stiles’ damsel ass hung off him like a limpet.

Then he’s on a gurney and they’re rolling him around, but Scott and Derek stay with him, hover over him.

“Call my dad - he’s gonna be so pissed.”

Scott nods but Derek just stares down at him, mouth open, green eyes so sharply focused - he’s worried. He’s gripping Stiles’ gurney so hard his knuckles are white and he’s worried. Stiles can’t look away from him, even as he sees Scott out of the corner of his eye, looking between them; even as the nurses force Derek away and Stiles rolls too quickly away from him.

He doesn’t remember much of getting put under.

While Stiles is in surgery, Derek vacillates between preternatural angry stillness, and rageful pacing. When the sheriff arrives, there’s a moment where he stills mid-pace, seems thrown, maybe nervous. Scott is better at talking so he explains what’s going on. It’s not long after that Melissa comes through and explains that Stiles is fine, his appendix just barely ruptured but he’s getting through surgery like a champ and should be out of the hospital in a few hours, more than likely with no complications at all and barely a scar.

When Liam calls with a wolf-related emergency, the sheriff tells Scott to go. Scott looks to Derek, maybe to come with, but Derek merely nods and stays put.

Then it’s Derek and the Sheriff, sitting together in the post-op waiting room.

“Gave you quite a scare, did he?” Noah asks quietly. His face is tired, but kind.

“He’s good at that,” Derek says before he can stop himself.

But the sheriff merely laughs, “Yeah, that’s my boy.” He shakes his head, “Everything going on, you almost forget stuff like... broken appendix can even happen.”

Derek swallows hard, looks down at the floor like he wants to murder it. “I couldn’t tell how bad it was. He smelled kind of... off. But I couldn’t tell until I touched his arm - he was in a lot of pain. I was afraid if I took it, it might get confusing, when he got here. They might need to know.”

The sheriff nods but it’s almost absent, he’s watching Derek carefully. “Weren’t very many feeble-regular folk in your family?” he asks lightly.

Derek shakes his head.

“It can be hard to get used to,” the sheriff says honestly, “the reminder of the frailty of the people you love.”

Derek’s head pops up, his eyes wide. He’s about to speak when the sheriff holds up a hand, “Save it kid. I am the sheriff after all.”

Derek’s entire world is tilted off axis and he mumbles, “We’re not... we’re not...”

“Yeah, yeah,” the sheriff sighs, utterly unfazed by Derek’s very obvious panic. “Well if and when you are, know that Stiles is my kid and I love him to the ends of the earth and if you pull any hot-shot bullshit I will hit you with my cruiser. Got it?”

Derek blinks at him. Shocked.

Which of course is when the doctor comes over to tell them they can go in and see him.

They spend another twenty minutes in the room with Stiles’ incapacitated body, during which Derek exhibits a very obvious low-level frequency of frustration that seems to unsettle nurses and cause eyerolls in the sheriff. Stiles doesn’t smell right. He smells like chemicals and iodine and fake-clean and clothes that aren’t his.

“How is the little squirt?” Peter asks from where he’s casually leaned against the doorway.

Derek’s not as surprised as he maybe should be to see him here. In recent years Peter has softened to the pack in a way that Derek was previously unsure was possible. He’s been seemingly genuine in his help for awhile now, though the dickish smart forever remains.

“Still out,” the sheriff says, as though Peter’s presence is expected. And that is surprising.

When Stiles begins to grumble awake Derek darts toward him, but stops himself short, letting the sheriff stand over his son.

“Dad?” Stiles says, groggy.

“Hey kid.”

“Misplaced it,” Stiles says.

“What?” The sheriff asks gently.

“‘Pendix,” Stiles slurs, and the sheriff huffs a laugh.

“Derek ate it,” Stiles smiles, then says, “When is Derek getting here?”

“I’m right here,” Derek says rushing forward.

Stiles cracks his gummy eyes open and looks at him, whiskey eyes sparkling glassily as he gazes up at him and says, “Nnnope. Lizard person.” Then snorts a laugh.

Derek’s brow furrows, backing up, before rolling his eyes at Stiles’ continued laughter.

“Sort of feels like lizard-spit,” Stiles says suddenly sober, looking down his body as though he doesn’t understand it at all. He stretches to look further and Derek presses his hand to Stiles’ shoulder.

“Careful,” Derek commands.

Stiles merely snatches Derek’s hand before collapsing back into the bed, eyes closed. “When is Derek getting here?”

“Stiles, I’m literally holding your hand.”

“Oh! That’s nice.” He holds both their hands up and says, “Oh my god- this is yours?”

“One of them,” Derek snarks lightly, and Stiles smiles brightly.

“I like you fake-Derek. But not as much as real-Derek.”

“Oh, and why’s that?” Derek asks feigning disinterest. But Stiles doesn’t say anything, just looks around sleepily.

“You’re angle-er.” Derek’s eyebrows raise. Stiles’ furrow. “Angular. I like your angular face. Like an elf.”

Derek stares at him, eyebrows raised. “Thank you?”

“I like your mouth,” Stiles tells him conversationally. “It’s not perfect. Like, when people say oh, _he’s got perfect DSL_ they don’t mean you.” Peter cackles, while the sheriff merely looks one part embarrassed and two parts confused.“But I like your lips because they’re on your face. And I like your face because it’s on this head.” Then suddenly Stiles reaches up and grabs his teeth.

Literally.

 _Grabs Derek Hale’s front teeth_ between his thumb and forefinger. Derek wrenches back out of his hold looking scandalized. Stiles snickers and says, “You have bunny teeth.” Derek grimaces at him looking insulted.“Cute little were-bunny,” Stiles coos, his hand lazily patting at Derek’s face. Derek lets out a hefty, put-upon sigh. “You’re so cute,” he announced brightly, rubbing a hand through Derek’s hair. “Wow,” Stiles whispers, eyes going wide. “You’re so soft.” He runs his fingers through Derek’s hair in disorganized circles, eyes lazily tracking the movement. “Soft, pretty, were-bunny.”

Derek sits there, resigned to his fate. Peter snorts in amusement, which is how Stiles’ weaving eyes find him.

“The hell?” He says, squinting at Peter. “You?”

“What, Stiles? Aren’t I pretty too?”

“Pretty awful.”

“Noah, he doesn't think I’m pretty,” Peter teases, and the sheriff just rolls his eyes.

Stiles is silent a moment as he looks back and forth between them before settling his gaze on Peter. “If you bang my dad I’ll kill you.”

Peter smiles brightly, shocked but over-the-top pleased, while Noah blurts out “Jesus, kid,” and Derek just leans back letting out a dry but all-encompassing, “Wow.”

Stiles’ eyelids are getting heavier and his body going still with exhaustion.

“Why don’t you go back to sleep, kiddo,” his father says.

Stiles shakes his head no.

“You need to rest,” Derek says.

Stiles’ eyes are slow to open, but when they do they find Derek straight away. “What if I go to sleep and never wake up?

“That won’t happen,” Derek tells him seriously, but he can smell the bright, sharp scent of the sheriff’s regret from across the bed.

“I don’t need to sleep,” Stiles insists. “Just stay and talk to me.”

So Derek does. He talks to him about the hospital, about everything he can hear and the smells of different medicines, because he knows those things fascinate Stiles. It’s barely three minutes before he’s asleep again.

“Thanks,” the sheriff says, even though Derek isn’t sure what it’s for.

A few hours later Stiles wakes up slowly, prettily, big eyes blinking open with a flutter of lashes. His hand squeezes Derek’s and Derek’s heart bangs as Stiles slowly wakes, and his eyes find him.

“Hey,” Stiles says, voice rough but soft, like he’s pleasantly surprised.

“Hey.”

“What’s the damage?”

“You’re down an appendix.”

“Mm,” Stiles shifts a little bit, testing his body and hissing when he stretches the place where his stitches are knit.

Derek’s hand tightens on his in reflex. Which is when Stiles notices their hands, clasped.

“Oh, hey,” he says easily, though Derek can hear the subtle hike in his heartbeat, “this is nice.”

“So you said before,” Derek smirks.

Stiles stares at him a moment before his whole face scrunches up and he groans. “Oh no. Please tell me you guys didn’t make one of those awful YouTube videos...”

“I promise nothing.”

“Ok,” Stiles looks at him, “hit me. What’s the worst of it. What’d I say?”

“The worst?” Derek pretends to wrack his mind and Stiles shows his impatience by tugging on their still-joined hands. “The winner, by far, was you looking Peter in the eye with deadly intent and telling him that if he were ever to become physically intimate with your father his life was forfeit.”

Stiles eyes go wide. “NO.”

“Yes.”

“NO!”

“‘Fraid so.”

“Oh god,” Stiles throws his head back. “Honestly, I don’t think I even knew I was nervous about that.”

“If you’d had your wits about you it would’ve been a very good shovel-talk.”

“Yeah well. Give me a break. I’ve never been given one myself. Nor has my father ever given one on my behalf, so.”

“Nah, he just intimidates with his general goodliness then threatens to hit you with the cruiser,” Derek jokes before he can think about it.

Stiles stares at him. Derek stares back. Their palms are getting sweaty where they’re pressed together but neither dares relax their grip. It feels important somehow.

“So uh, nothing else too terrible, huh?” Stiles asks awkwardly.

“Terrible? No.”

Stiles nods, but he’s looking down at his lap, his second hand fiddling with the pills in the cheap hospital blanket and a blush is rising to his cheeks. “But... we’re ok?”

Derek can’t help but smile at him, though he tucks his chin down shyly. “We’re good,” he tells him softly. Stiles smiles hopefully and Derek is an asshole, so he just can’t help it. “Even if I am an elf-faced were-bunny.”

Stiles brings both of his hands up to his face to cover it while he groans in embarrassment, but he doesn’t let go of Derek, who ends up awkwardly leaning toward him.

“I talked about the bunny teeth!?” Stiles groans, muffled through hands.

“And rubbed my hair a lot.”

Stiles hands fly away from his face as he looks at Derek with wide eyes. “Stoned-me got to touch your hair!?” He asks, affronted.

Derek snorts.

“I can’t believe it. I’m jealous of myself,” Stiles mutters, before looking up at Derek as though he’s just remembered he can hear him.

Derek just smiles, “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“That was... I was scared.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, not looking at him. His scent has gone bitter.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just... It’s hard sometimes. Always being the weak one. I mean I ended up int he hospital and this wasn’t even some evil enemy! This was my own faulty human anatomy. It feels... ridiculous.”

“I’m glad you are who you are,” derek tells him. “It’s important. You’re important. You ground us.”

“Great. Glad me and my feeble human body could be of use.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Derek bites, a little more vehemently than he means to. He doesn’t realize he’s got Stiles’ hand cradled to his chest until he looks up and Stiles is watching him. But when he realizes, he doesn’t let go. He relaxed into the hold, keeps Stiles’ hand pressed to the center of his chest.

“My father was human,” Derek tells him quietly. He can sense Stiles’ surprise. “My mother used to say sometimes how important that was to them, to her. Pack life - the instincts, the dynamics, the politics - can be overwhelming. He was grounding, for her. Reminded her of important things, not just... fragility. She used to say the strongest member of the pack was the one who wasn’t afraid to speak his mind without the claws to back it up. You might not be one of us, Stiles. And yeah, maybe you get sick. But I’ve never thought of you as weak.”

Stiles’ eyes are shining, his hand gripping Derek’s tightly. Derek likes the look of his throat working to swallow.

“My dad threatened to hit you with a car, huh?”

Derek nods and Stiles smiles, before slowly unlocking his hand from Derek’s, Derek’s own staying frozen in place. Stiles reaches slowly, letting his palm rest against the back of Derek’s neck and pulling him in.

Derek is angled awkwardly over the rail of the gurney, and Stiles can hardly lean into him at all, and he still smells like iodine and chemicals, but when Derek leans down and kisses him, it’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh! I fell behind one day! Honestly, it was a rough one. My employer (who just laid me off suddenly during this pandemic #thanks) asked me to come in and “collect my personal items”. I’ve been working there for six years and had no inkling I was going to be let go, so I had shit EVERYWHERE. It was ridiculous. And then I got a migraine and couldn’t stand to look at this screen.   
> So, yeah, I had a lazy headache and self-pity day so I’ve gotta make that one up!


	11. DAY ELEVEN - Problem Solving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some evil Icelandic Demon is here to suck the magic juice out of the Nemeton for what can only be nefarious purposes, and they have a plan to deal with that. They do. But why it must involve Derek shirtless and Stiles potentially endangering Derek’s handsome, shirtless life is truly just THE question of the hour.

It’s the Nemeton, because of course it is. It always is. That recently re-grown bitch of a stump is a magnet for supernatural clusterfuck, and Stiles, as emissary in training, both knows its importance and wishes it would just sink into the earth and be done with them. That would have saved them the trouble of having to fight an Icelandic demon named Fjord or something who used an ancient ritual to sap the power from the Nemeton in order to wield some kind of ultimate power. Stiles isn’t sure what the end game was, he nearly passed out from rolling his eyes too hard after _Icelandic Demon_ and _ultimate power_. Deaton came through for them, thank god, with some very useful information the just of it being: that which afforded the demon its power, must be the thing which takes it away. Which, loosely translated, means _stab the fucker through the heart with a Nemeton-twig_. What it also unfortunately meant was that said twig needed to possess the energy of the Nemeton. The twig is only a magic demon-killing twig if it possesses the innate magic of the formerly-magic tree.

Which was stolen, by said demon.

And thus, like every solution from Deaton, it leads back to the problem - the snake eats its tail and on and on it goes.

Derek was the one to suggest hitting the books for alternatives or work-arounds. _Magic always has a loophole_ , he’d said, and he was right. As he often is, Stiles very much notices. Derek is smarter than maybe Stiles himself, why he hides it, Stiles would like very much to spend the rest of his life finding out. But alas, as always, the heavy look sparking between them during those moments of under appreciated brilliance is interrupted by the potentially life-ending problem at hand.

Lydia finds a spell, something that can be performed by the emissary to provide support to sacred earth; in this case they are hoping the Nemeton applies. It’s a transfer, essentially a loan of magic, of energy, from one supernatural thing to another. In this case, a wolf. Lydia offers to be the one to lend her supernatural energy to the Nemeton, Stiles thinks out of mere scholastic interest, but Deaton tells them it’s unwise. Lydia’s power is wrapped up in the magic of death, and to transfer that to the Nemeton could be dangerous.

So Derek volunteers, which doesn’t really shock anyone. Derek hasn’t found a grenade yet he hasn’t wanted to lay on. So Stiles, being Junior Emissary number one, has the dually torturous and exquisite task of painting Derek’s half-naked body with a series of frustratingly complex sigils that are just intricate enough to keep him almost entirely focused on the work.

Almost.

He’s definitely not too distracted to notice that Derek’s let his chest hair come back - why he waxed himself like a ken doll for years Stiles has yet to figure out. But it makes painting in the dead-center of his chest difficult not only in ease of execution but because it’s so goddamned tantalizing. By the time they’re finished, Stiles’ heart is beating hard and his mind is racing with a million unhelpful thoughts: this could hurt Derek. Derek’s arms are beautiful. Something could go wrong. Derek’s superclavicular fossa deserves to be kissed. What if Stiles kills him? What if Stiles loves him?

Wouldn’t that just be the dramatic irony cherry on top of the chaos sundae of his life - kills the man he loves in a failed magical ritual to kill some fuck-off demon named _Fjord._ He must be visibly spinning out because suddenly Derek’s hand is warm and heavy on his shoulder and Stiles thinks Derek might’ve been talking to him. 

“What?”

“It’s gonna be fine.”

Stiles huffs, he hates that. “I hate that.” See. “You have no idea if it’s gonna be fine. We could go out there right now and I could blow you to smithereens.”

“I didn’t realize you were quite so all-powerful.”

Stiles glares. “We’re going to perform an ancient magic-transfer ritual from an ancient tome for an ancient quasi-sentient tree - literally everything will go wrong Derek. That’s how it is! Everything always goes wrong and sometimes people die and I can’t live with that! If you died, I couldn’t live with that!”

“I’m not going to die,” Derek growls, like _he’s_ frustrated.

“You don’t know that!”

“Yes, I do.”

“How? How could you possibly fucking know that!?”

“Because I trust you.”

Stiles blinks at him, stopped in his tracks. “Well that’s dumb,” he says weakly. _“I_ don’t even trust me.”

“Now who’s the stupid one?” Stiles glares. “The Nemeton won’t hurt me, because you won’t let it. I trust you, Stiles.”

“Derek...” He doesn’t know what he wants to say, but it feels too big to put into words. Nothing fits - not _I love you_ , not _I can’t risk you_ , not _I’m scared_. Maybe all of it, but he can’t make the words come out. He should though. Just in case. He should fight cowardice and tell Derek the truth while he’s still standing here, healthy and strong and alive.

But then it’s too late because Derek is squeezing his shoulder and saying, “Come on.”

He steps out of the room and Stiles can do nothing but follow. But first, he takes a deep breath, calming himself by force, and uses his favorite new technique - scrubbing his own chemosignals from the air. If he’s going to do this, he needs the wolves not to be able to tell how panicked he is, how desperately he loves Derek. It’s the only way he can keep his head on straight.

The walk to the Nemeton is quiet. When they get there, the air feels electric, too still, like the atmosphere itself has gone static around the Nemeton in its impotent state. The pack is there, surrounding the tree as best they can, Derek standing nearby to the newer growth - larger than it should be for the length of time it’s been re-growing, but still not a fully grown tree. Stiles nods to Scott, who nods back, and then he goes to stand in front of Derek.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “You’ve got this,” Derek tells him. I fucking better, Stiles thinks. He goes over to the Nemeton, and focuses on the sigil he needs to draw, pulling it up in his mind and replicating it with strokes of his finger over the Nemeton’s trunk. Because of course, why would he be allowed to use pigment he could actually see? Stiles keeps his eyes closed and lets his fingers work from memory. When he’s done, he ca just barely feel the pull of the magic. H reaches for Derek’s hand and places it over the invisible sigil.

Stiles steps back, meets Derek’s eyes once more and he nods, ready. Stiles starts chanting in his mind, calling on the magic he knows is latent within the Nemeton, and imploring it to take their gift. Derek. Derek’s wolf. He can’t let his hesitation tinge the request so he fights that down and chants and chants, until he feels something, like an answer. He opens his eyes and sees Derek, holding still.

The sigils glow bright and Derek gasps, eyes opening, glowing blue; his hand begins to glow where it is in contact with the tree and the earth begins to shake, the rumble deafening. When Stiles finishes, for a moment everything goes too still, all sound gone, then the bright glow increases until he can barely see Derek and there’s a blast. Stiles feels the power pulse through him and he’s thrown back, body hitting the ground hard.

A moment later, the sound has stopped, the forest is calm, and Stiles can feel that the tree’s hunger, the ominous presence of the Nemeton’s upset, has ceased. The air feels clean and normal, and as he blinks his eyes to focus, he sees that the tree looks healthy, swaying in a light breeze. He hears the others scrambling, and then suddenly Lydia is over him.

“Are you ok?” She asks, and it’s a bit cottony but he can hear her.

“Yeah,” he nods. She helps him to his feet, and he’s already stumbling toward where he can see the other kneeling over Derek before he’s really found which way is up. Stiles runs clumsily over to where Derek lies, prone over the forest floor. Stiles all but throws himself down beside him, ignoring the flash of pain in his knees when they hit the twigs and little stones. Derek is pale, nearly grey and somehow still beautiful the way he was the first time Stiles saw him hurt, poisoned by Kate Argent’s bullet. Stiles has the bizarre thought that he looks like a painting of Ophelia he once saw - beautiful, tragic. Gone.

His heart starts to hammer, “Derek?” He reaches out to feel for a pulse.

“Do you feel a pulse?” Lydia asks quickly, kneeling down on Derek’s other side.

“I dont - I can’t... I don’t know.”

“Let me,” she slaps his hands out of the way.

Stiles’ heart is beating too fast, his hands shaking. Derek is too still, and he’s got bruises forming where the sigils used to be. Scott’s hand is heavy and grounding on his shoulder - he knows what Derek means to him. Stiles had only been brave enough to tell him, but never to tell Derek himself. It seems so cowardly now, looking at him, pale and bruised on the bare earth.

“I’ve got it,” Lydia says victoriously. “It’s here. It’s slow, but he’s alive.”

Stiles exhales so hard he nearly crumples. Just then, Derek’s eyelashes flutter. Stiles scrambles until he’s practically on top of him, hovering over his face. “Derek,” he calls, too earnest.

Derek grumbles and opens his eyes. “Told you,” he whispers, voice soft and sweet.

Stiles can’t help it, he laughs. “God - you’re an asshole.”

Derek starts to sit up and the other wolves help him, he’s still pale and he seems woozy, so the pack holds him up as he gets his bearings.

“Did it work?” Scott asks.

They all look toward the tree. Stiles can see the health in it, the new power, but he guesses they can’t because they all look at each other, unsure. Then Derek moves slightly and he hisses, pulling his arm up and looking down - he’s scraped up from elbow to wrist. Blood is beaded along the skin, detritus from the forest floor stuck to it.

“Are you not healing?” Scott asks.

“It worked,” Derek says. “The power transfer. I’m definitely human.”

“How do you know?” Liam asks.

“Because everything hurts.”

“It worked,” Stiles confirms, “I can see it.” Lydia looks curious about that but she doesn’t ask. “Can you stand?” Stiles asks Derek. He nods, but he’s slow to get up and his jaw clenches against the ache of it. Stiles tucks himself underneath Derek’s armpit, taking his weight and guiding him to lean against him. “Scott, break off a big enough piece to use as a weapon.” Scott nods and Liam and Lydia follow him to the Nemeton. Stiles doesn’t bother to stay and watch, instead starts to lead Derek back toward the house.

The going is slow, and Derek winces on the stairs. Stiles manages to get him to the living room but he grimaces when faced with the couch. Stiles rolls his eyes, “Can you stand?”

Derek rolls his back and nods, but his defiance doesn’t hide the way he sways when Stiles lets go of him to run and grab the sheets out of the linen closet. Derek is weird about his couch - he loves it, and he likes to keep it clean. Stiles has noticed, he likes to keep everything clean. The house is lived-in, it’s not immaculate. But it’s nowhere near the state you’d expect of a house owned by an early thirty-something that’s frequented by a pack of werewolves and the like in their mid twenties. The others don’t seem to notice, but derek likes to be in control of this house, to keep it clean. So Stiles lays out one sheet over the cushions, and places the other at the end for Derek to use as a blanket. Which must look inviting because not a moment later Derek is all but collapsing into it.

“You need to hydrate,” Stiles tells him, and receives back only a grumble as Derek unties his shoes. Stiles heads to the kitchen and microwaves some water, gets out of tea and makes it forDerek, who is slouched back in the couch, examining the dirt-packed scrape on his arm. Stiles sets down the tea and says, “I’ll get the stuff to take care of that.”

The trip to the bathroom cabinet takes less than a minute, but derek is asleep by the time Stiles gets back. His color is back though, and his chest rises and falls steadily. He’s drunk half the tea, the rest of it sitting on the coaster, still steaming. There’s something dissociating about that - Derek Hale and his set of coasters. He’s really quite the precious gentleman home keeper sometimes. Stiles smiles, pulls the sheet over him and lets his hands comb through his hair since no ones’s here to see.

Temporarily human Derek Hale.

What the hell are they gonna do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has another part in the works!   
> To be completed!


	12. DAY TWELVE - Problem Solving 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Derek is now basically human and frankly, Stiles is surprised by how he chooses to spend his time. Especially since there’s still some a-hole demon floating around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been DYING to write this interpretation of Derek since I watched Melvin Smarty for free on YouTube, which... was a whole-ass mess of a movie. But besotted, hot-mess stoner Derek is a WHOLE MOOD that Ricky Hershey inspired. Tyler Hoechlin acting stoned and smoking joints is a beautiful, beautiful gift.

There are things about Derek being human that come as an utter surprise. Namely, his laziness. Derek’s always been an early to rise, always busy, train train train kind of wolf. So the 300% increase in his average daily slumber is startling. And he can sleep anywhere. Anytime.

The first time Derek went human, he was mostly the same. A slightly more stab-able version of his regular self. But now, well, he’s been pretty much out of sight since it happened and when he is glimpsed he seems... lethargic.

The rest of the pack is worried he’s sick, that it’s a side effect of the Nemeton and he’ll drop dead any moment. But Stiles knows that isn’t true. He would be able to tell, if that were the case.

No, the _Case of Derek Hale and the Incessant Napping_ is solved one day when Stiles stops by unannounced and find him in sweatpants and a too-big t-shirt, sunk into his beloved couch, feet up on the coffee table, smoking an honest to god blunt.

Stiles can’t even say anything at first, he merely stands there, mouth open, and watches Derek bring the joint to his lips, take a long drag, hold it, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, stretching his neck long, before exhaling slowly. The smoke plumes up in an impressive stream and Derek’s eyes stay closed as his chest slowly deflates.

His whole body is loose and lazy, his movements slow and his lashes are long and dark against his cheeks and Stiles feels his heart, his stomach, his _everything_ turn over. He thought he’d seen every possible facet of Derek’s attractiveness and now he is unfairly faced with relaxed-Derek?

“Wow,” Stiles blurts, accidentally.

Derek jerks, surprised, sitting up suddenly, feet lifting off the coffee table in shock, lit joint falling into his lap. He scrabbles for it with a noticeable lack of coordination, “Fuck!”

Never, in all his years of knowing Derek, has Stiles been able to startle him, and certainly never has he been able to catch him so off guard as to make him say fuck.

This, is a special day.

Derek stares over at him sort of blankly. “Hi.”

Stiles snorts, trying to keep his heart from launching out of his chest at the sight of Derek’s utterly slack expression and fuzzy, unstyled hair. He heads over toward the couch, hands in his pockets and says, “Mr. Hale, do you have a prescription for that?”

Derek’s face goes entirely blank, but his eyes go a little wide and he licks his lips. It takes an eon for his eyes to track down to the joint between his fingers, then back up to Stiles. Then he seems to remember who he is because he says, “Nope,” defiantly and sits back again, bringing the joint to his lips.

“I’m beginning to understand where you’ve been.”

“What do you mean?” He squints at Stiles through the smoke. “It’s been like, a day, maybe.”

Stiles stare at him. “Derek it’s Thursday.”

Derek stares at him, then up at the wall where his TV is located but definitely not on, causing Stiles to look between the TV and Derek. “Shit,” Derek says, staring down into the middle distance. “Did I miss the meeting?”

“No,” Stiles says, sitting down on the couch, “that’s Friday. Like always. And also,” Stiles whispers conspiratorially, “ _at your house_.”

“Oh yeah. Good.” Derek drops the burnt-out joint down into the cereal bowl he seems to be using as an ashtray.

“So this is your natural human state? You’re a wake-and-baker???”

“Do born wolves have a natural human state?”

“You’re asking me?”

“No.” Derek lets his head fall back against the couch again, eyes staring emptily. “Hey,” he looks over at Stiles without lifting his head and God, it would be so easy to just lean down and -“will you come over before the meeting tomorrow and remind me?”

Stiles’ eyebrows raise in amusement but he says, “Sure Willy Nelson.”

Derek mutters what Stiles thinks is _Thanks_ , but his eyes are closed and his breath is slow.

“Derek,” Stiles calls after a long silent moment. And, yep - he’s asleep.

Stiles can’t help but laugh and wonder at the same time. Derek Hale, defenseless and stoned in front of another person. It really is like an alternate reality. He gets up and pulls the sheet over him, like he did when this all started only three days ago. Derek looks the same, in theory, so maybe it’s the fact that he’s dead-asleep, or maybe it’s just the knowledge that he’s essentially human now but he looks, to Stiles, smaller somehow.

He locks the door on his way out, just to be safe.

**...**

When Stiles gets to the Hale house the following afternoon, it’s obvious Derek has just woken up. His feet are bare, though he’s managed to get jeans on, and his hair is wildly upswept except for one temple, which is plastered to his head. He lets Stiles in without a greeting, seemingly flummoxed by the locked door, which is enough indication to convince Stiles Derek has definitely not left the house today.

Stiles brings his grocery bag of soda and chips into the kitchen while Derek putters around doing god knows what.

“Dude - there’s like five boxes of cereal in here,” Stiles picks up one of the boxes of cinnamon toast crunch.

“Don’t touch my cereal,” Derek commands moodily, sounding a little like his old self and very sober.

Stiles rolls his eyes, “I’m not gonna _eat_ it-”

“Good. Don’t.”

“Good God, you're a grumpus. I’m not going to eat your _children’s cereal_ , Derek. I’m just wondering why you’re stockpiling only this in the event of the apocalypse.”

Derek doesn’t snap back. In a bizarre turn of events he actually looks kind of chastened, like Stiles has made him self-conscious. He shrugs, like a fourteen year old being asked for the reason why they did something wrong. Then he says, bratty, “I’m not grumpy.”

“Lie,” Stiles says, setting out the snacks.

“That’s just _how I sound_ ,” Derek says, sounding actually frustrated.

Stiles turns to really look at him, and he’s confused by the amount of frustration he sees there. “Alright, geez. Sorry. Though for the record if you wanted to convince me you’re not a grumpus, you should try fixing your face. And your voice. And your general,” Stiles gestures at him with a stacked handful of plastic cups, “vibe.” He expects a withering response, but when he looks up Derek is gone.

“Ooooohkay.”

Twenty minutes later Stiles finds Derek cleaning up the living room. Very slowly. And in no conceivable pattern of action.

“That sobriety didn’t last long.”

Derek looks up at him, joint between his lips, then looks back down at the coffee table and says, “I’m fixing my _vibe_.”

Stiles scoffs, smiling bright, but Derek empties his ashtray-cereal-bowl with a little extra vigor, eyebrows furrowing for a moment like he’s actually hurt.

Stiles doesn’t get the chance to say anything about it before the sound of Scott’s motorcycle has Derek kicking into what can loosely be described as high-gear. He grabs the rest of the trash from the coffee table and then turns around in circles, as if he can’t remember what he’s doing next before going over and opening up the windows. He takes one last drag on his joint, cheeks hollowing in a way that makes Stiles swallow drily, and then blows the smoke out the open window and stubs out the joint. Derek turns on the overhead fan and then hurries out of the room to get rid of the evidence like a) he’s fourteen and about to get grounded, and b) everyone he knows isn’t a werewolf who can smell literally everything.

Which they can. Every one of them. Including Lydia. Whenever Derek’s obvious new pastime is brought up though, he merely shrugs, face impassive.

“So we think we found Fjord,” Scott says, setting down a smudged-up iPad on the table.

Derek, who usually loiters in a corner somewhere, is actually sitting on the couch today. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and squints at the iPad. Hard.

“Can you not see that?” Stiles can’t help but ask.

Derek shrugs, “It’s grainy.”

“It’s... really not,” Lydia says with amusement.

Derek looks again, screws his face up squinting, and says, “huh.”

“Hold shit - do you need glasses?”

Derek glares at him, then gives an airy, “Whatever,” and leans back into the couch, practically reclined.

“So what am I looking at?” Lydia asks, all business. 

“Franklin’s,” Scott responds, “he’s been coming in and out of there pretty regularly. It must be where he's staying.”

“Mm, smart,” Derek says easily. “Nose isn’t gonna be much use in there.”

“How come?” Scott asks.

“Fertilizer plant. Or, it was. For years. Can’t get within half a mile of it before it blocks everything out.”

“Shit,” Scott says, looking down at the iPad.

“We need to draw him out,” Derek says, “We can’t go in there half-blind. Besides, factory like that - logistical nightmare. There’s doors and exits everywhere. Too much ground to cover.”

“How do we draw him out, then?” Liam asks, impatient.

Derek shrugs.

“A trick?” Scott offers. “Make him think we have something he wants?”

“Power,” Lydia mutters, then, “the spear.”

Derek grunts, “We’d tip our hand.”

“Yeah but maybe we could make it look like we have something else that’s powerful. Something else a demon would want. I’m pretty sure I could muster up an enchantment that makes something look powerful.”

“Then it’s just a matter of a little play-acting. Making sure he knows we’ve got something we’re trying to hide,” Lydia says.

“Right,” Scott is getting that excited glint in his eye, “then we set up what seems like an opportunity for him to take it-”

“By killing us,” Stiles inserts, because someone has to.

“-and when he shows up we take him out.”

“Take him out sounds a little too easy, but other than that...” Stiles looks around to get confirmation on their plan of action. Until Derek’s noticeable silence draws his attention, as it seems to do for everyone.

Liam points awkwardly, “Is... he asleep?”

Scott tilts his head in puppy-like confusion while Lydia merely sighs.

**...**

They have a plan.

It’s a reasonably good plan. Having Derek reason it out once he was back in the waking world definitely didn’t hurt. Everyone has done their part, Stiles has splashed fake-magic-nuke trails all over town, and Corey’s managed to invisibly stalk Fjord, seeing him catch the scent and following the trail of their false weapon. He’s even able to confirm that Fjord was for sure listening when they talked about using the magic weapon to kick-start the Nemeton.

If all goes to plan, they’ll lead Fjord right back to the Nemeton under the guise of interrupting their Hail Mary, and they can stab him right there within easy access to the tree which will then hopefully steal back it’s magic-tree-juice.

So yeah, it’s a plan. It might even work.

But, of course, it might not. Which is why Stiles and Derek have been relegated to the car, parked where they’re hoping they’ll see when Fjord takes off for the Preserve. Derek is obviously frustrated with his role as look-out, and tells Stiles for the umpteenth time, “We should head toward the Nemeton. I can still fight.”

When he’d said much the same to Scott, the Alpha had wisely responded, “Let’s not take any unnecessary risks while you’re vulnerable.” Which earned him a look so stormy that Liam actually backed away. Stiles does not make the same mistake. Instead he takes another tack.

“No way, dude. You’re my bodyguard. Human or not, you’re my anti-Fjord insurance policy.”

Derek snorts a laugh. It almost puts stiles at ease, which is naturally when everything goes to hell.

The next thing Stiles remembers, is the sickening feeling of be upended through space, and the sound of Derek hitting the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of this ‘verse to come!


	13. DAY THIRTEEN - Closer To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek’s relationship to intimacy is a rocky one. He loves well and fully, but his experiences with sex and love have been largely founded on adrenaline and desperation. Stiles doesn’t want that for him and Derek. He wants them to move slow. He wants to re-teach Derek that it’s ok to be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve developed a fixation on Derek Hale’s vulnerability.  
> Teen Wolf is so wild because they presented us with this incredible character who could have been used so incredibly aptly to explore trauma and victimization and issues of masculinity and they set it all up perfectly to develop this character and delve into these issues and then they just... didn’t.  
> God bless Tyler Hoechlin acting his effing face off to keep the through-line of Derek’s depth throughout.  
> This is no hate to the writers or Jeff Davis, because they did bring us Derek Hale to begin with. So THANK YOU for that because pondering this character is getting me through a fucking quarantine. But it is kinda crazy to me that they had this gold mine of a complicated, flawed, fascinating character and then gave us only snippets of development over the course what? Like four seasons? Maybe that’s why I feel so compelled to write him over and over.  
> Anyway.... here’s a random three thousand words dealing with Derek’s intimacy issues that no one asked for. <3

When Stiles and Derek first get together, there’s a lot that surprises Stiles about Derek. They’re adults now, a decade of history between them, some of it dark though none of it each other’s faults. They’ve both matured, they’ve both had their heartfelt attempts at romance with people that ended up being not _the one_. As much time and space as grows between them, they always seem to circle back around to one another. So consistently so, that the first time they kiss it almost feels inevitable. Not in a disappointing way - no, it feels more like something snapping into place. Two pieces that click together to make something stronger, something complete.

And while Stiles has witnessed Derek grow and mature right along side him for years, there are still moments that the man Derek has become shocks him. The hallmarks of his personality are the same - clever, sharp, sarcastic with a hint of devastatingly handsome moody-brooding. But he’s allowed the rest of himself to bloom and grow. To heal. He talks and smiles freely. He’s got bunny teeth and dimples and, Stiles realizes one day at the grocery store, he’s actually _pleasant._ Derek Hale is easy to talk to. He’s startlingly personable and there’s something about the way he smiles at the older woman waiting before them in the check-out line and talking to him about elderberries of all things that nearly makes Stiles cry. He thinks of the hundred ways everything Derek has been through might have crushed the possibility of this man, standing in front of him, and everything he feels for Derek just kind of seizes up into this unwieldy wave of affection and heartbreak and relief. Derek must notice because he looks over, briefly, trying to be subtle, and reaches to rest his hand at the small of Stiles’ back.

He doesn’t touch though.

He just lets it hover there, as if he’s preparing to touch if needed. But only then.

And that’s the most complicated thing that Stiles has learned about Derek. Derek has a complicated relationship with touch. Stiles himself has always been easy with physical contact, so much so as a kid that his parents had to talk to him about personal boundaries and touching too easily, or without invitation. It never felt strange to him, to reach out for what he wanted. Stiles is naturally tactile and he never felt embarrassed by that. He hugged the other kids at school, patted them and held onto them so readily that his teacher had commented that while it was sweet, they had better make sure he knew about boundaries before he got older and it translated into something more uncomfortable. So Stiles learned about personal space and asking permission and he mostly reined in his need to touch everyone and every thing all the time. But he never really lost that readiness, the comfort and confidence to reach out and take what he needed, whether a hug or a fist-bump or a hand on the shoulder. It was so second-nature to him that he didn’t even think about it. Which made Derek’s behavior stand out so starkly in contrast.

Derek was careful with his touch. Even when he allowed himself to reach, he rarely let himself complete the circuit. Derek was never really tactile unless it was out of necessity, therefore usually in violence, as a direct response to threat. The way it startled him, the first few times that Stiles reached out and touched, so casually without a second thought - a hand on his forearm, or a touch to his hip in passing - shook something inside Stiles. An ache developed, at the realization of just how far Derek’s trauma had taken root, and it sparked something inside him that he hadn’t known was there. The more he took note of the way Derek froze, for a split-second at every touch, the more Stiles developed a drive, a desperation, to prove himself to Derek romantically; to prove his trustworthiness in a way their relationship had previously not afforded. Stiles wants, now more than ever, to show Derek that he can become comfortable with him. He wants to reach the point where they are comfortable together. He just wants Derek to be comfortable. To feel safe.But he doesn’t want to push Derek, or to make him feel self-conscious, so he tries to be subtle. It’s something he’s earned with age, part of the maturity of hitting near-thirty and gaining perspective. He doesn’t rush headlong, damning the consequences. Not anymore. And certainly not where Derek is concerned. Instead he watches, he listens, he pays attention to Derek even when the other man doesn’t know he’s doing so and he tries to be attentive to what he needs.

Stiles has almost no hang-ups, physically. He’s comfortable with his body, he’s comfortable with his sexuality and he’s generally open to his own needs. So he’s fairly unconcerned with himself, he doesn’t have any concerns about touch or sex or intimacy. He has a healthy relationship with intimacy. It’s something he’s proud to say he’s good at - or rather, very comfortable with. So he has no qualms using his not inconsiderable insight to parse Derek’s frustrations and Derek’s needs. He can move at whatever pace Derek sets. Which proves to be a challenge in itself, because Derek runs so fucking hot one day, and polar-distant the next. Not emotionally - he’s always a good boyfriend in that way, never emotionally manipulative or mean the way he was when he was vulnerable when they were younger. He’s grown past pushing people away because he’s scared or angry. His vacillation is strictly sexual. On one day he throws Stiles against the wall and grinds against him until they both nearly come in their pants; the next he shies away from Stiles’ touch, doesn’t instigate, looks nearly heartbreakingly vulnerable at even the barest kiss. And Stiles has yet to be able to discern a recognizable pattern to his receptiveness. He’s just barely able to squeeze out of Derek that he’s never gotten to _take it slow_ , the regret in his voice bringing up spiraling waves of anger and sadness in Stiles on Derek’s behalf. Derek admits he wants things to be different with Stiles, but he doesn’t know how. Then he abruptly tells Stiles he’s taking a shower and leaves the room, leaving Stiles alone with his thoughts and months worth of Derek-data all swirling in his brain. 

But Stiles loves a puzzle. And he’s dedicated to Derek and to being what he needs. He’s always been like that. Love and commitment go hand and hand for Stiles, they always have. He’s been all-in since the first time they kissed, and he told Derek as much. Derek actually looked... relieved. 

So it doesn't bother Stiles that they’re both grown people in a romantic relationship going on a few months, who are definitely not virgins, and yet who have not had sex.

Sex is great, Stiles can’t fucking wait to get his hands on him - but it’s not the point of being with Derek. So Stiles is ok. He can wait for the physical element of their relationship to develop and he isn’t bothered by the fact that they haven’t gotten there yet.

But Derek, it seems, is in fact bothered.

In his studies of Derek, Stiles has realized that Derek’s sexual drive treads dangerously along the line of adrenaline, which, again, often relates in some way to violence. His lust always reactionary, a response to terror or chaos of some kind getting his blood up. His lust is frantic, his touch hard and unforgiving and Stiles is absolutely a fan of that and the manhandling it results in. He’s never going to turn his nose up at desperately passionate affection from Derek Hale. He is happy to indulge it - to an extent. He doesn’t want their first time to be fast and reactionary, and he knows Derek doesn’t either. They feel too deeply for each other to let it all culminate in that. So they’ve had some near-bruising makeouts and some aggressive frottage, but thy’ve kept a lid on it after that.

Stiles is soft with him, romantic and affectionate at random nothing-special times. And Derek is receptive. But there’s a noticeable lack of ease with casual touch. They’ve gotten to a point where Derek can receive it, Stiles’ near-constant little affections desensitizing Derek to casual touch to a point where he can actually relax and enjoy it. The sad reality is that Derek has no idea how to reciprocate. Stiles can see it twist him up inside, the desire to reach out, to reciprocate, but he just looks so at sea.

Derek, it seems, can only express his affection physically if he puts the petal to the metal and goes full throttle. And while Stiles would frankly love to be throttled by Derek, he can’t in good conscience skip over all of the good, slow, new-couple stuff that he and Derek deserve after ten fucking years of build-up. So Stiles holds his hand, and touches him with care, and Derek responds with either heart-crushing vulnerability that causes him to back off, or he responds to Stiles’ gentle smolder with fully raging fire.

Derek seems to quarrel with the realization because he always seems to look utterly lost when he’s got Stiles pinned to the couch, or up against the wall, and it’s obvious Derek wants to slow things down but doesn’t seem to know how. And Stiles has to swallow down his heart every time the realization guts him a-new: Derek doesn’t know how to be intimate, how to touch or be touched sexually, unless it’s through desperation. Stiles knows him well enough to know that despite how far he’s come, talking openly about this will tear Derek up. But even knowing that, there’s a breaking point to Stiles’ ability to not directly address it.

...

Stiles reaches out and kisses him softly only for Derek to grip a little too tightly and kiss a little too hard in return. And Stiles is sure the uptick in his heartbeat and absolute lust blooming in his scent at that treatment must be confusing for Derek when he pulls back and puts a little space between them, whispers, “ _Slow_ ,” against Derek’s lips, and lets his own hold go soft, touching him almost delicately.Derek doesn’t look him in the eyes, but when Stiles kisses him again, he does so softly, and Derek is receptive at first. And then Stiles touches his tongue to Derek’s and suddenly Derek is pressing down against him, using his weight to pin him and slotting between Stiles’ thighs, his lips against Stiles’ throat. And Stiles isn’t a saint ok - he’s been fantasizing about this in some form or fashion since he was sixteen. So purely out of the high of wish-fulfillment his head tilts back and his body arches up against Derek’s, encouraging. When Derek’s hands are suddenly at the top of his pants Stiles grunts - his body eager but his mind a whirlwind because, _fast. That’s too fast._ He snatches Derek’s hands quickly in his own, stopping him and whispers, “Slow,” against Derek’s hair. “Slow down, Der.” Derek’s body goes tense, but he exhales a long breath before meeting Stiles’ lips again. And the kiss is languid and deep and beautiful. Except the longer it goes on the tighter Derek’s hold gets on Stiles’ wrists, the stronger the movement of his hips against Stiles’ and Stiles’ own body moves with him, so hungry for him that he’s too distracted to acknowledge the roughness with which Derek reaches between them and wrenches open his pants. Until Stiles’ hands land on Derek’s back and feel how tense he his, how frantic his movement and Stiles remembers himself, remembers that he doesn’t want this like this and neither does Derek. Stiles presses his hands to Derek’s chest, pushing him back just a little, giving him some resistance. Derek leans up, looking down at him with his pink lips and his darkened eyes and for a moment Stiles hates himself for putting on the breaks. But then Derek seems to realize that he’s done it again, zero to one hundred like he’s trying to race through this, and he looks embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he says, eyes darting away from Stiles’, before he quickly draws away completely. He sits on the the edge of the couch by Stiles’ legs, hands clasped in his lap, head dipped low and his eyes darting but Stiles suspects, not seeing anything. “I’m sorry,” he says again, too quietly.

He sounds... broken. It’s then that Stiles knows they can’t afford not to talk about it anymore.

“Derek,” he says. But Derek won’t look at him, doesn’t even seem to hear him. “Derek,” he tries again, more forcefully.

That seems to get through, Derek’s eyes darting to his for a moment. Stiles sits up, wraps his legs awkwardly around Derek’s waist, his arms winding around his torso, his front pressed to Derek’s side. Derek is tense in his hold. Stiles rests his head against Derek’s shoulder, kisses his t-shirted shoulder, and just holds him.

Derek exhales a long stream of air, eyes closed, and tucks his head down to rest his lips against Stiles’ arm where it’s wrapped around Derek’s chest.

Derek breathes deeply, just holding Stiles’ arm against him for a while.His voice is barely there when he says, “I don’t know what my problem is.”

Stiles rests his hand on Derek’s jaw, turns his face, and kisses him - soft, chaste. “I’m literally too sexy,” Stiles whispers deadpan against his lips. Derek snorts a laugh, tilting his head and nipping the bolt of Stiles’ jaw in retaliation. “I just give off that vibe,” Stiles jokes, in a _nothing to be done_ tone, “you know, people see me and they want to ravish me. It’s an effect I have- _eek!_ ” He laughs, thrashing as Derek nips playfully at his collarbone through his shirt. He laughs as Derek topples him over onto his back.Derek growls against his throat jokingly, wrapping his arms around him, holding himself against Stiles’ body snugly, nuzzling his face and beard against Stiles’ throat and collarbone and getting unmanageable joy from the way he laughs and squirms. Stiles throws his legs around him, hitting him with his heels, eventually laughing himself out of breath and begging, “stop, stop - asshole!”

Derek chuckles, leaning up on his arms to smirk victoriously down at him. When he moves to sit up Stiles reaches up, wrapping his arms around him and guiding him back down. Derek looks at him with wide eyes for a moment before allowing himself to be moved. Stiles’ heart beats hard in his chest, but not out of nerves. He’s happy. He doesn’t worry about being gentle as he pulls Derek down to lay beside him, sandwiched between his body and the back of the couch. He knows Derek well enough to know that sometimes being too tender with him puts too much weight of importance on the moment. The guy is damn near indestructible physically, and Stiles finds that letting Derek lean into that during moments of emotional vulnerability helps him manage it all. So he pulls Derek’s arm across his body and shoves Derek’s head down against his chest. Derek gives a huff of a growl but he settles himself against Stiles heavily, returning the favor.

Stiles gives him a moment to settle before reaching out with his fingers, letting them skim lightly from the back of Derek’s neck to his shoulder, down his arm to his hand where he tangles their fingers, interlacing them. He brings his other hand to the back of Derek’s head, threading his fingers gently through his dark hair, pushing and feeling the strands between his fingers.

They lay there for a long time, just breathing together. Eventually Stiles brings their joined hands up to his lips and kisses their intertwined fingers.

Usually Derek corners the market on being able to read the physiology of people, but in that moment Stiles can feel Derek’s heart beating hard. He gently extracts his fingers from Stiles’ and touches his face gently enough that Stiles can feel the slight tremble to him. He slides his fingertips up until they’re sliding through Stiles’ hair. It’s longer than it’s ever been, dark chocolate brunette and unwieldy. Stiles can feel how careful he is, how tentative and soft his touch is; Derek’s face stays hidden against Stiles’ chest.

After awhile Stiles tugs gently on his arm, whispers, “C’mere.”

Derek stays pressed close to Stiles’ body as he slides his way up to Stiles’ lips. When they kiss, it’s soft, tender, and Stiles cradles Derek’s head in his hands. The kisses stay slow and easy, hot and open-mouthed but not instigating more. Derek’s hands stay gentle where they drift across Stiles’ body.

When it feels like they’ve been kissing for hours Stiles pulls away to breathe deeply, pressing their foreheads together and smiling against Derek’s lips.

“There’s my soft-wolf,” Stiles whispers against his lips.

Derek chuckles then groans, collapsing and letting his full weight fall directly onto Stiles’ body. Stiles makes a punched sound that turns into a laugh. In the quiet that follows Stiles lets his fingertips run over Derek’s skin. He doesn’t mean to say out loud, “Just give it time.”

Derek huffs petulantly against his chest. “It’s been a fucking decade,” Derek bites, frustrated.

“Exactly,” Stiles says brightly. “I’ve been jacking off thinking about you for ten years. I can probably wait a little longer.” The crass comment achieves its goal. Derek lifts his head, stares at him with wide, pretty eyes and a slack mouth for a long moment, before huffing out a shocked laugh and slumping back down. “I mean come on,” Stiles eggs him on, joking, “you had to know.” Derek shakes his head with a chuckle against Stiles chest. Tension broken, Stiles wraps his arms around him tightly, and says, “You need to re-learn some shit, dude.” Derek doesn’t tense, doesn't pull away - a testament to his growth. But he does sigh heavily, his arms tightening around Stiles. “I want to be the person to do that with you,” Stiles says quietly.

Derek exhales on a tremble and nods.

“Frankly I’m fucking thrilled,” Stiles blurts loudly, earning another a chuckle from Derek. “I’ve got a real discovery kink, so I say we really start from scratch. I’m talking draw this thing out for months-”

Derek groans out a laugh before leaning up to kiss him quiet.

Stiles doesn’t say it out loud because Derek and he can both only take so much emotional development in a day, but laying there with Derek, quiet and comfortable and unhurried, it’s as content as he’s ever been. He’s excited to get Derek’s pants off, someday soon, but he’s even more excited that they’ve got this. Whatever comes next will only be made sweeter by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this felt unreasonably difficult somehow. I feel like it started simply enough but it turned out to be such a heady concept.  
> Hopefully it rounded-out well! I don’t know if anyone would want more of this particular world. But if you do just let me know!


	14. DAY FOURTEEN - Uncle Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has been a pretty constant presence in their lives for the past several years, but there are some things that Derek finds a little difficult to forgive and forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just exploring the Hale family dynamic a bit.  
> This is a future!fic in which Alison is alive because I say so.  
> Also... Peter was married? And his wife’s name was Olivia. And Derek had a sibling younger than Cora whose name was Mattie. Also because... I say so.

The Calaveras had taken to calling Derek the last Hale, _El ultimo_ , she’d say like it was title. Like he’s he kind of person that needs to be preceded by a title. Derek rolled his eyes whenever she said it.

Partly because he’d never appreciated Araya’s pension for dramatics. And also, because he isn’t the last Hale. She knows this. 

Cora’s out there, somewhere. South America. Derek would throw himself into volcano before uttering a word of her location to Araya. She knows this too. 

Then, of course, there’s Peter.

And Peter is... right here. Peter has never strayed far from Beacon Hills, or the McCall pack. That’s the crux of it. Peter is close, geographically, but somehow he is lightyears further from Derek than Cora. Derek and Cora are... estranged in some ways. He doesn’t know if she’ll ever fully forgive him - for the fire and for everything after. For not finding her. For not being what they needed, for not being a Hale Alpha worthy of the title. For Boyd. But they’ve never been outright enemies, and when she’s around he shares space with her easily. The bond is still there. She glares at him more than smiles, and she isn’t subtle in her coldness, but she hasn’t tried to kill him and he’d die before hurting her. So they tolerate one another because they feel like they should. Even as siblings that hate each other, they’d kill and die for each other too. She might want to punch him more often than not, but she also truly loves him. Instinctually his wolf knows that. Derek has needed that, in a lot of ways - that familiar bond that’s deep and simple enough that the wolf can feel it. For all their friction, he has that with Cora.

Peter is more complicated.

Derek will be the first to admit his guilt, the part he played in the genocide of the Hale pack. He’s going to have to live with that for the rest of his life. But he’s also grown over the years, matured and earned perspective. He’s able now, in a way he wasn’t before, to acknowledge his youth in the matter. He was young, arrogant and reckless. But he wasn’t hateful or cruel. He never meant for anyone to get hurt. He only meant to make himself feel better, by way of being loved. So he thought.

His is a complicated guilt, but intellectually Derek knows he can’t take all the blame. Kate is the killer. Kate is the murderer. Derek’s fault was arrogant stupidity. But he’s not to blame.

Which makes what he feels for Peter all the more complicated.

Cora is still pack, estranged as they are.

But Peter...

Peter is complicated.

Peter is... violent. Untrustworthy. Inherently so. He always was. Violent and clever and in some ways so incredibly unrepentant. Before the fire, Peter’s villainous tendencies seemed joking, like clever quirks. After the fire, the way Derek looks at people has changed. The way he remembers Peter, the way he sees him now, is changed. Derek isn’t sure if he’ll ever recover - from finding Laura in the woods, from knowing it was Peter who... On his kinder days Derek can allow himself to believe that Peter was out of his mind, so hurt and furious, that his wolf reached out desperately for Alpha power and when it found Laura, the wolf surged up and Peter just... took it. Derek tries to remember the severity of Peter’s agony and chalk it up to that, to madness.

But then, there’s the pre-meditated brilliance of it all. The utter craft and intelligence of the whole plan. Nothing about that is an accident.

He killed Laura - his own niece, Derek’s only remaining anchor and someone who was fierce and loyal and whole. Peter eviscerated her, his own niece. He would have killed Derek too, tried, and didn’t hold back. Derek can still taste the fear on the back of his tongue every now and again, of realizing it was Peter who’d gutted him, nearly ripped out his spine; the terror of having to face him in the hospital with Stiles, so fragile and unsuspecting between them. Peter was cold and mean and he wanted to hurt him.

The cold dread of yet another betrayal when he realized that the berserker that drove sharpened bone into his seemingly human chest again and again with excruciating force was working in league with Peter. Peter and Kate. Because he was so hungry for power he’d align with the woman who killed their family.

That’s hard to marry with the man who casually stops by the loft with groceries Derek didn’t ask for, jokes around easily with the pack, and cooks dinner in Derek’s kitchen sometimes.They’ve come together again as family, over the years. Derek trusts him in the sense that he doesn’t believe Peter actively wants to murder him or the rest of the pack. At the moment. But he doesn’t trust him enough to forgive and forget. In a lot of ways, he trusts his life to Peter. His life maybe, because at the moment keeping Derek alive is tactically advantageous, but not his heart. Not his heart, and not the lives of anyone he loves.

He allows Peter to stick around, to be present, to integrate back into his life and the lives of the pack, but he’s never stopped being wary.

The rest of the pack seem accepting of Peter nowadays. They seem to have mostly let their old wounds heal over, forgiveness for Peter like moss over a gnarled tree trunk. Derek wonders if he’s the only one that remembers certain moss in invasive, pretty though it might be. He watches them all now, gathered together in the cozy little living room of Scott and Alison’s starter home. Everyone is relaxed and comfortable together. Scott and Alison had their first baby just six months ago and it has stirred up a lot of feelings, for all of them. Derek is surprised at the severity of his own reaction. He wasn’t the youngest of his siblings, he remembers when Cora and Mattie came home from the hospital. It’s been about that long since he’s been anywhere near a baby and it’s... terrifying. The fragility of something so vulnerable and precious is an overwhelming.

He loves this kid. And that love is scary, because Derek has let people down before. The Hales feel sort of... cursed, to Derek. Usually that’s a feeling he can shove down, clinging to his mother’s memory and a feeling of purpose and dedication in supporting Scott, supporting the pack, helping to protect Beacon Hills. It takes a lot of effort to not allow the darker thoughts to swallow him, and he’s gotten a lot better. Which he supposes has also been a helping factor in not freaking out and just preemptively killing Peter out of panic. But sometimes when they have big moments, like this, that make him realize anew the fragility of their family ecosystem, Derek is struck with that old torrent of feeling - fear, suspicion, anger. He’s lost too much, too often, for that not to seize him every now and again.

And looking at this baby, this precious new little thing that he loves and yet is terrified to go near, it brings up all of the old issues. The little pup is the same shade of brown-skinned as his father, with his mother’s dimples and their shared trait of big, pretty brown eyes. He’ll be a wolf, Derek can tell. But that’s one day. Right now, he’s just a baby. A human baby, who trusts everyone who holds him and smiles at him, who is so delicate and fragile and so fucking precious. His sweat feels cold, when Peter gets on the floor with Alison and the baby. He watches Peter smile at him, but he sees the swipe of claws in a hospital hallway; Peter touches the baby’s nose gently, smiling when the baby’s jerky toddler arms can’t catch his own, and Derek sees his sister, dead on the ground, bloody and cut in half. When he blinks back to reality, Peter is looking over at him, expression somehow both dark and careful.

Derek says nothing, and the moment between them passes.

The rest of the day passes peacefully and no one notices if Derek is a bit more subdued than usual. Except for Stiles, because, well, it’s Stiles. But he does Derek the kindness of not saying anything out loud. Merely tilts his head in question when no one else is looking, and Derek smiles back with a shrug, letting him know it’s alright. When they part for the night Stiles let’s his hand linger on Derek’s shoulder and looks him sharply in the eye, a demand that if Derek needs something, he reach out.

Derek nods with a smirk and Stiles rolls his eyes.

They’ve gotten good at that, the two of them. They communicate easily, sometimes without words. Stiles gets under his skin but in a bizarre turn of events, Derek just sort of lets him live there. And Stiles, it seems, has no qualms about threading Derek into his life, a little more every day.

Peter loves it, which Derek hates. Even now, as they’re walking back to town Peter smirks at him with those sharp blue eyes. Derek glares at him out of the corner of his eye, like he always does when Peter has said or is about to say something about Stiles that will make Derek want to punch him in the face.

Peter chuckles at the expected reaction, and then they walk in silence for a good stretch. Until Peter says, too casually, “Cute kid.”

Derek’s heart skips a beat and he answers flatly, “Yeah.”

“Granted its parents are basically children themselves.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “They’re well into their twenties.”

“Olivia, she wanted kids,” Peter says, as though it’s not the first time he’s spoken of her.

Derek stops dead in his tracks. He has to jog to catch up when Peter goes on without him.

“I kept putting her off. Telling her someday. But I knew.”

“Knew?” Derek asks softly.

“I would’ve been a terrible father.”

Even with all of the bad blood between them, Derek’s heart aches at the sentiment. “You don’t”-

“Please, nephew. Spare me,” Peter cuts in harshly. “The way you looked at me today, near that defenseless little thing, you looked at me and I know what you saw. It’s what I always see. What I’ve always seen. What Olivia never saw.”

They’ve stopped walking, Derek stares at him hard.

“The others, the pups,” he calls the pack, as he often does now a days, “they can’t sense it. Not the way we can. Don’t do me the disservice of pretending I don’t know.”

Derek shifts uncomfortably. he empty silence between them is torture. Peter just stands there, watching him, and Derek has to look away because Peter’s gaze is always so calculating, so assessing. Derek is intelligent, but Peter is a hundred times smarter tan he’ll ever be. And Derek’s always hated being pinned under his eyes, feeling so easily read. Even now he wonders if that’s what Peter and Kate had in common, and it makes him squeeze his eyes shut, shake his head.

When he opens his eyes, Peter looks almost sad in his curiosity.

“I won’t lie to you,” Derek tells him, his voice soft and even. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re insane, letting you in, letting you close.”

There’s a flash of regret in Peters eyes but he covers it quickly with his usual bravado. He shrugs, “Probably.”

He starts walking again and Derek follows, not knowing what else to do, his head buzzing. After a long time walking side by side Derek says, almost so quietly that it isn’t said at all, “Sometimes all I can see is her. Lying in the woods. In pieces.”

He watches Peter, doesn’t even try to hide it. They’ve never talked about it, about all of it. Peter’s throat works, and Derek can’t help but be mesmerized by the obvious struggle, by the uncommon show of emotion as Peter’s jaw ticks and his eyes go glassy. “Me too.”

Derek’s own throat feels tight. “I need to know you’re with me on this,” Derek says suddenly, stopping to face him. “Everything else can stay the same - you can make your digs and we don’t have to pretend to be family, like we were. But I can’t... I need to know.”

“Need to know what, nephew?” He says with an edge of threat.

And Derek’s brain is instantly a scramble, the way it always is when he goes toe to toe with Peter. “Everything is different now,” Derek says, looking back in the direction of the house, where their youngest pack member is being laid down in his crib for sleep, Alison and Scott chattering easily over the ritual. “Whatever we... however much you hate me-”

Peter huffs in frustration, walking off a few steps, shaking his head before circle right back quickly and facing off against Derek. “I don’t hate you,” he says harshly, anger in his eyes.

“Fine. Whatever your aspirations-”

“Aspirations,” he interrupts, head shaking again. His jaw strains with anger and Derek watches closely, as always a little bit worried that Peter might just reach out and kill him. And that’s the core of it. Right there. Derek’s heart beats hard when Peter looks at him long and hard again, at his chest where his telltale heart is beating a fucking racket, at his fists which are balled tight at his sides, ready to flash into claws if needed, at his face, the expression of which Derek can’t even imagine. Whatever he sees there, it deflates Peter. “I think I’ve quite overplayed my hand at the game of thrones, Derek. I’m tired. I’m guilty. And I’m not getting any younger. You want a promise? Fine. I won’t betray the pack ever again, cross my heart.” He drags his finger in an X across his chest.

Derek doesn’t know what to think. On the one hand, they’re talking about it baldly, which is new. On the other hand, a promise from Peter... he isn’t sure what that’s worth. He’s still wrapping his mind around Peter’s guilt over Laura and Aunt Olivia wanting children that Peter wouldn’t give her because... he’s always been a little bit the way he is now?

“What did you tell her?”

Peter blinks at him, taken off-guard.

“Aunt Olivia,” Peter’s expression cracks a bit at the mention of her name. “When she said she wanted kids.”

“That we weren’t ready,” Peter says distantly, he’s looking at Derek like he’s never seen him before.

“Do you think you could have been?” Derek asks, though he isn’t sure why he so desperately wants to know.

Peter blinks away glassiness in his eyes. “No, but... She did.”

That settles something in Derek. Olivia, she was kind and optimistic and guileless. She wanted good for everyone, and mean things gave her heartache. She cried over pet adoption videos. She brought out the absolute best in Peter in ways so perfect and so subtle, that Derek in his teenaged obliviousness hadn’t acknowledged at the time. She was a good person, with good instincts, and she loved Peter. She loved him and she had faith in him.

Derek nods, before saying, “We should go, it’s gonna rain.”

Peter takes the out, readily. “What’re you afraid you’re gonna melt?”

“Feel free to run back to the loft in the rain. I myself have no intention of spending that much time in wet jeans.”

Peter snorts, “I bet if you called Stiles and told him about your wet jeans-”

Derek growls with a glare, Peter backs off, hands up in surrender, but he’s smirking. The walk quietly for awhile before Peter sighs, “My Beta and an Argent hunter, producing progeny.” Derek grimaces at the word choice. Peter says, as though it surprises him, “I would die for that child.” He gives a small laugh, “Who’d have thought?”

Olivia, Derek thinks. And he can’t help but let his fists loosen, his shoulders relax. Maybe Peter is redeemable afterall. For the first time since his return to Beacon Hills Derek wonders if maybe a healthy relationship between him and Peter really is possible.


	15. DAY FIFTEEN - Unlikely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noah is the sheriff of a small hamlet named Beacon, wherein the elusive Hale family comes to town every once and awhile, bringing with them intrigue and the matriarch’s smirking, blue-eyed brother, Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think I’ve ever written something about the Sheriff and Peter, but I’ve recently stumbled across the fic “Adult Wolf” by KouriArashi and I am mildly obsessed.

The Hales have been an itch on the calm of Beacon county since before Noah can remember. Elusive and geographically separate form the township itself, the Hales and their otherness lead to a lot of fear and curiosity among the people of he town; the town for which Noah is the sheriff. They’re as known and as argued about as theology and politics around Beacon street corners and dinner tables. It seems, much to the chagrin of the loftier citizens of Beacon who remain ever-ready to argue the point, that the Hale family lineage goes back longer than the town itself; to be honest Noah would easily believe it does. He’s never put much stock in _revisionist history_ , as his wife once called it. Noah’s also never put much stock in popular opinions. It’s why when the Hales find themselves in the heart of town, as they occasionally do for either diversion or necessary supplies they can’t make for themselves, he keeps an even temper and an open mind.

Still, he can’t deny there’s something about them.

The Hales, for all their casual dress and playful demeanor with one another, walk the beaten-dirt roads of Beacon like royalty. Perhaps not in their clothes or fashion, but in their general air. They are a proud clan, fit and handsome, the lot of them. But they keep distant, aloof in a way that keeps Noah, and it seems his teenaged son, intrigued. The Hales coming to town is an event in their household. For Noah, because he knows there’ll be tensions at high, townspeople raring to pick a fight with the outsiders. For Stiles, because he never seems to tire of gawking at the unusual family. He considers himself something of a sleuth and Noah can’t help but groan with a long-suffering hand to his forehead when Stiles all but makes a calamity of himself and his best friend Scott (who he is often towing behind by the arm) as he not at all subtly follows the family from street to street in the market.

More than once Peter Hale, brother to the matriarch of the Hale clan, has led Stiles and Scott to one dead end or another, only to exit somehow before the boys or Noah can see how, leaving them with utterly mystified with no Hales in sight. Often Peter will look up, catching his sharp blue eyes on Noah’s as though he’s felt him watching from so far, and smirk. It’s an intelligent, dangerous-feeling thing that knocks Noah off balance. And it’s a family trait, to an extent. All of the Hales possess piercing eyes that seem never to fail to find you, which the townspeople might find unsettling but not quite understand why. Noah clocked it the minute he first met them. Their matriarch, Talia, had pinned him under her dark eyes from clear across the market on his first week as the new sheriff. When she had made her way through the market toward him, Noah noticed acutely two things: one, the way the people moved carefully out of her way, and two, the way her brother, Peter, and eldest daughter, Laura, had flanked her at either side.Their eyes were a tangible weight on him, something in the force of them making his hair stand on end. And that is the crux of it all - the Hales are something _other_.

Noah isn’t truly a believer in such things, though his wife was, so he doesn’t dare try to put a name to it. But the Hales are not simple territory outliers; there is something different about them that Noah knows the people can feel. He doesn’t need to know for sure what it is to understand the importance and delicacy of keeping the town in harmony with the Hales.

Today is like any other day when the Hales come to town - there’s a slight tension in the air, the people are more careful, as though afraid to act-out in front of them, afraid to step on the skirts of Talia Hale. To Noah’s knowledge there is no history of violence between the Hales and the citizens of Beacon, but he notices the change in demeanor of his people nonetheless. Watching them from his perch on the grassy hill just above the market, Noah can feel the way that people relax as the Hales purchase their wares and move on from their booths. Talia seems to garner the most quiet, the most deference. Her husband is often more relaxed, always seen with the two younger children, Cora and Matthew, clinging to his arms. He speaks more readily, more easily with the people of Beacon as though he is one of them. The rest of the Hales are pleasant but terse, almost too polite. 

Noah feels a warmth at his shoulder and tries not to startle at the fact that Peter Hale managed to get within pinching distance while he remained completely unaware. Over the weeks Noah has found Peter to be doing such more and more often. It’s clear he revels in the effects of his own sneakiness, and is today as self-satisfied as ever at having obviously surprised him. And as always his smile only widens when Noah rolls his eyes. Peter has become almost a friend, in the consistent way that they talk whenever the Hales come to town. Peter has an unusual skill for making himself comfortable in the company of near strangers. It’s a kind of arrogance, Noah thinks, to be so utterly unworried everywhere you go. Peter seems to own whatever space he inhabits, and Noah is frustrated to realize it is a trait he does find ever so fascinating. 

“Your little one seems to have moved on in his infatuation,” Peter smirks, eyes bright as they lead Noah’s to where Stiles is crouched behind the fabric goods cart, half-covered in deep burgundy cheesecloth as he peers intently over the cart at Talia Hale’s oldest son, Derek. He’s a handsome, angular, and utterly humorless boy, the set of whose jaw makes it abundantly clear that he’s not only aware of Stiles but not at all amused by his attention.

Noah’s head falls back on a long sigh, but Peter only chuckles. It’s a dangerously nice sound, intoxicating, like a siren call. Noah bites back the instinct to want to hear it again.

“I apologize,” Noah says, tiredly.

Peter shrugs, watching the exchange between his sullen nephew and Noah’s precocious son. Stiles trips himself up, tangles in the loose-hewn cloth, in his eagerness to follow Derek, who is no doubt going to lead him into a ditch and then disappear.

“No shame in a curious mind,” Peter says. Noah grunts in disagreement and Peter smiles all the wider. “My nephew could use a little lightening up.”

“He is a serious boy,” Noah remarks.

Peter chuckles again and Noah is very disturbed to find he feels pride at it, “He would love to hear you say that.”

“Ah,” Noah nods knowingly, “putting on his father’s coat?”

Peter snorts, “More like his sister’s. His father is a born mediator. Derek fancies himself tough. Laura’s more of a born warrior than our Derek will ever be.” Peter seems to realize a moment too late what he’s said and the friendly humor disappears from his face, replaced by the haughty mask of amusement that pulls up the wall between _friendly_ , and _friend_.

The word _warrior_ is a strange one for civilized society and they both know it. The Hales work hard, Noah imagines, to not appear as though they could sack the town in a night. Regardless of their polite behavior, Noah very much believes they could.

“She does seem a formidable woman,” the sheriff compliments easily, wanting to diffuse tension. “Like her mother.”

It has the intended effect. Peter narrows his eyes at him a long moment but ultimately smirks. “Oh yes.”

“Perhaps he intends to emulate you,” Noah suggests with a smirk.

“Please,” Peter says dubiously, “he lacks the humor _or_ the handsomeness.” The bright-eyed smirk he levels at Noah nearly knocks the smile off of him, though he maintains his expression out of sheer force of will. But it’s as though Peter _knows_ , grin growing wider as he watches Noah with his piercing eyes.

After a long moment where nothing is said, the sheriff clears his throat and looks away, realizing they had been staring far too long. He notices as Peter shifts beside him, seemingly looking for something in the crowd below. His eyes scan until they reach the source of tension. There, off to the side of the market and a ways out of the crowd Derek and Stiles are facing off, his nephew’s body tense with irritation, Stiles’ deceptively loose, though Peter can hear his heart rabbit from his perch.

They’re talking but it sounds all snide and sharp, with no heed for the tentative peace between them, _all_. Peter can already see where some of the townspeople are pausing to watch, where Laura is tuning into her older brother’s frustration from clear across the market. Her eyes meet Peter’s across the distance and he nods. He begins to eye a clear and unthreatening but quick path down before he hears Derek’s voice bite out snidely, “Shouldn’t a _little boy_ like you be at home with his _mother_?”

Peter sighs, “Oh dear,” a moment before the noise of the ruckus reaches the sheriff’s ears.Noah is halfway to asking Peter what is wrong before he hears his son’s raised voice, the surprised gasps and shouting voices of the market and he looks down to see as Stiles launches himself at Derek Hale.

Noah is glad no one will have been focused on him as he makes his way uncoordinatedly down the hill to the edge of the market, Peter outmaneuvering him easily. He can just barely see how the larger boy throws Stiles to the ground, his heart sinking when he sees the expression on his son’s face - rage. Stiles is usually amiable and easy-going but since his mother’s passing he’s prone to uncontrolled, furious episodes of brief but unyielding anger that more than usually results in violence. Never toward other people, until now. But he knows that red-faced, bright-eyed expression well enough to know that Stiles is about to do something stupid, which is right when his son picks up a handful of dirt and stones from the road and hurls them at Derek Hale with all the force he can muster, hitting his square in the face. Derek stumbles back, all but growls as he shakes his head, and Noah can see the boy’s jaw clench as he moves angrily toward Stiles - Peter breaks through the crowd first putting a heavy hand on the back of his nephew’s neck, seemingly taking the fight right out of him. Stiles scrambles to get up and readies to jump at Derek again, even with the other boy’s back now turned, but Noah breaks through the crowd and grabs his son, wrapping his arm around his middle and pulling him back.

“Calm down,” Noah grunts harshly, struggling to hold Stiles’ as he thrashes. _“Stiles!”_ All at once his son goes still in his hold. Noah can see the way the rage clears and he blinks his mother’s hazel eyes up at him, seeming all at once sorry and not. “That’s enough,” he tells him quietly, and Stiles stubbornly gives in, letting his body relax even as his jaw tightens. 

“That’s quite enough excitement for today,” Peter announces easily. Noah looks at him across the dusty, disturbed dirt with thanks, appreciating the calm in his voice. “Surely my nephew has something to say,” Peter levels Derek with a cold look. But Derek only glares back, indignant. He scoffs and crosses his arms. “For speaking of a boy’s departed mother with cruelty in his tone,” Peter warns, voice even and icy, sending a collective shiver through the crowd. Derek’s eyes snap to Peter’s, surprised, and then to Noah’s where he seems all the sudden young and cowed. He lowers his eyes and dips his chin in obvious deference before saying clumsily, “I apologize. I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t care to pay attention,” Peter mutters, not letting him off the hook, “there’s a difference.”

Derek full-body winces, shrinking into himself and says quietly, “I’m sorry, sheriff.”

The sheriff takes a breath, looks at the boy in front of him, suddenly acutely aware of his age now that the posturing is utterly absent, and says, “That’s ok, son.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Stiles argues from his shoulder.

“You and I are not done,” the sheriff says strictly before yelling, “Scott! I know you’re here.”

Scott McCall, his son’s best friend, an affable, happy boy with a mostly well-hidden streak of determination and anger that rivals his son’s own, steps sheepishly out from the crowd. “Hey sheriff,” he waves awkwardly.

“Take Stiles home,” the sheriff commands, and Scott nods, scrambling forward to take Stiles’ arm in hand and pull him along. “We’ll talk at home,” the sheriff says ominously, Stiles looking betrayed for a moment before his eyes find Derek and he scowls in a way that definitively indicates trouble for the future. But he allows himself to be pulled and soon he and Scott disappear into the crowd. By the time Noah looks back toward Derek and Peter, Talia is there, Laura pulling Derek away much the way Scott had pulled Stiles.

“I apologize for my son,” Noah tells her honestly, somewhat exhausted.

She waves at him easily, “I apologize for mine. _He should know better_ ,” she says with heavy implication, and Derek shrinks away from the words and their weight, then Laura spins him and walks him away.

“I’ll be talking with Stiles about his behavior. I’m afraid his... curiosity about your boy got the better of him.”

Peter chuckles, and Talia gives him a quick look that only a sibling could give - simultaneous amusement and threat of bodily harm. He quiets, his eyebrows raising in unspoken defense, but his smile remains.

“Derek is quick to frustration,” Talia admits, seemingly equally as exhausted as the sheriff. “He’s too quick to fight.”

“My son, it seems, as well.”

Talia laughs, looks at Noah with a smile and says, “I hope this children’s feud doesn’t sharpen things between us,” she says, her voice queenly as she casts a look out to the gathered masses.

Noah smiles as easily as he can muster and says, “Certainly not.”

She nods at him kindly and says, “Until next time, sheriff,” before turning to leave, her family following. Her husband brings the younger children, hand in hand, through the crowd offering Noah a smile and nod on his way to follow his wife. Noah is too caught up in watching them leave, motioning for the lookers-on to go about their business, to realize that Peter is still standing in place, watching him. By the time he realizes, he feels shockingly exposed. Peter smirks at him, again, like he knows the inner workings of the sheriff’s own mind, and they stand there, looking at one another, for what feels to Noah to be a long time.

It isn’t until Talia calls after him that Peter looks away. He glances back at Noah one more time, with a wolffish grin, and then easily trots away.

Noah is left feeling unsteady in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a lot going on here - it’s in a nebulous period, it’s Peter/Noah which is wild for me, it’s metastasizing on it’s own inside the word document when I’m not looking... 
> 
> Idk y’all, I might be writing a long-ass Peter/Noah, Derek/Stiles fic. Wtf. Thank you quarantine.


	16. BYGONES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a lot of water under the bridge with Stiles and Derek, but it doesn’t really seem to bother them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok there’s good news, and there’s bad news.   
> Bad first - I’ve clearly not posted on the daily as I had endeavored. Too lofty a goal, it turns out. The ‘depresh’ was out of ‘remish’ and then the power and thus WiFi was out. So I’ve missed quite a few days.   
> BUT! The good news is, while I have not been posting every day, I HAVE been writing every day! Which was really more the point. So I have some stuff to post that’s too long for this little project that’ll be up soon.   
> I hope everyone is doing alright out there.

Being friends with Derek is an exercise in determination.

Stiles has known him for a decade and he’s still wheedling tidbits of personal information out of him one miscellaneous bout of bickering at a time. For example, he has just now, in this Chipotle, learned that Derek is a soda pop purist. By this, Stiles means that Derek was never that kid that took the fountain cup and slapped it under literally every spigot to make the monstrosity of super-soda that normal kids (i.e. Stiles and Scott) did at every unmonitored chance. Derek instead grimaces and informs Stiles that most of the time soda in general tastes more like chemicals than it does like flavors and the mixing of all of them at once would smell like nuclear waste, and therefore probably taste like it too.

Because he’s a little shit, Stiles immediately takes his cup and does to the soda machine to make the super-mix of childhood. He can tell Derek knows what he’s done when he levels a nose-wrinkled grimace at him as he’s making his way over, still three tables away. When Stiles sits down with a happy sigh Derek pans, “You can sit somewhere else.”

“Nope. You’re gonna tase this.”

Derek rises and unimpressed eyebrow, implying that there is no earthly way that’s going to happen. But frankly, he looks at Stiles like that A LOT and most of those times the thing he was so adamant wouldn’t happen, definitely happened. Hence, why there sitting in a Chipotle with steak burrito bowls when not an hour earlier Derek had decreed that he refused to go anywhere so heavily trafficked and commercial.

But here they are, enjoying their overly processed, preservative-laden food.

Stiles isn’t worried about Derek’s eyebrow of doom because he’s realized the key to Derek’s compliance (though this trick only works when in public) is to threaten him with the possibility of embarrassment. So Stiles looks at him and smirks evilly, before chanting quietly “Dooo it, dooo it, dooo it-”

“Stop,” Derek grunts.

So Stiles starts again, slightly louder, “Dooo it, dooo it, doo it.”

“Stiles - it’s literally gonna taste like poison-”

“DOOO IT-“

“Oh my god fine!” He snatches the cup, grimacing as he brings it close, and then takes a huge gulp, which has Stiles immediately cackling. Derek, never one to be outdone, swallows the ridiculous gulp of the delicious, sugar-poison.

“Ugh!” He exclaims, shoving the cup back at Stiles who is incapable of controlling his laughter.

“What does it taste like!?”

“Poison,” Derek grunts with a tone that screams _exactly like I said!_.

Stiles leans forward, “Ok but how like poison, precisely? Like - can you taste the difference between like... sprite chemicals ad Fanta chemicals?”

“Why are you so interested in this?” Derek bites without heat, taking a sip of the coffee he brought with him.

There was very clearly a sign saying NO OUTSIDE FOOD OR DRINK but the teenager working the counter had taken one look at Derek, swallowed nervously at his vicious glare, and smartly decided to say nothing.

“You’re freaky tastebuds are fascinating,” Stiles says.

Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles is pretty sure he sees him smile.

They eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before the sound of girls giggling catches Stiles attention. He looks over at them, college-aged probably, to see them quickly look away, huddling together. He looks back to Derek with a smirk, a quip already on his tongue, when Derek’s expression stops him.

He’s adopted that familiar vacant anger that used to infuriate Stiles so much the first year they met. He knows better now than to think this expression means Derek is vapid and angry, violent and careless. He does a good job of faking it, but Stiles has been able to see through that since Kanima-times. Derek isn’t nearly as furious as he likes people to think. This is the expression Derek makes when he’s uncomfortable - which Stiles has had many a tumultuous string of thoughts about in relation to the fact that this is exactly how Derek looked, in the beginning, for months at a time.

The likelihood that Derek will maintain this expression through all interpersonal interactions has lessened significantly, but Stiles knows he’s still prone to bad reactions at pointed and unwanted attentions, of the lustfully appreciative variety, specifically.

So Stiles knows he can hear them, the girls at the far table. And Stiles knows Derek would rather chew off his own paw than actually talk about it, so he blurts brightly, “Does stuff taste different to you than it does to the ‘Other Guy’?”

It isn’t a great code name, as code names go, but it’s an easy way to refer to Derek’s evolved and totally badass wolf-form in public without seeming patently insane our outing them to other supernaturals or god forbid hunters in the area. Plus, Stiles took it from Mark Ruffalo in _The Avengers_ , so that adds a layer of cool.

Derek rolls his eyes but his shoulders relax and some semblance of person-hood comes back to his face, so Stiles is pretty sure he’s relieved to have a distraction. And Stiles, being who he is, can manage thinking about two things at one time. So as they finish their food and discuss the wolf taste-test that is in Derek’s imminent future (he can argue all he wants, Stiles will make this happen) Stiles is also thinking about Derek’s long history of being ogled and very clearly hating it.

They’re walking back to Stiles’ apartment, the silence comfortable between them when Stiles erupts, “I’m sorry about Miguel.”

Derek’s face screws up into a frown. “What?”

“Miguel. My cousin. Who had no shirts.” Derek’s face screws up again but he doesn’t get a chance to speak before Stiles cuts him off. “I objectified you.”

Derek’s eyebrows raise as he stares at him.

“Oh my God, I cannot believe you don’t remember one of the formative moments of our friendship. When you were wanted by the police and yet, loitering in the bedroom of the sheriff’s teenaged son demanding we use his childhood friends to hack the phone number of your murderous uncle.”

“Formative?” Derek snarks, doubtful.

“Yeah!” Stiles tires, too cheerfully. “I objectified your smokin’ hot bod in front of Danny without your consent and you smashed my face into the steering wheel of the Jeep for it and I pretended not to know why.”

Derek frowns again, but for real this time. Stiles has a mental Rolodex of Derek’s every grunt and grimace, he’s watched him carefully enough over the years to catalogue the data which helps him discern between each. And this frown, unlike the previous, spells actual emotional turmoil.

“I’m sorry,” he says gruffly, not looking at Stiles. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

Stiles is taken aback for a moment. When he recovers he smiles a little too widely and shrugs a little to hard. “Meh. You used to hit me a lot back then.” He means it as a joke, but Derek’s frown only deepens, edging into hurt territory and that is not what Stiles wants. “It’s fine, Derek-”

“No, it’s not.”

“Dude, it was years ago-”

“Yeah. You were a teenager. I was older. Stronger. I should never have threatened you. I hurt you.”

“Derek,” Stiles stops, lays a hand on Derek’s arm, which seems to really surprise him. “Look, I appreciate it. I do. Don’t think I’m blowing off your heartfelt apology. But, don’t think I don’t get it either.” Derek rallies to argue but Stiles cuts him off, “I know, I know. And you’re right. You were abusive to my malleable teenaged mind. And body.” Derek winces but Stiles doesn’t let it stop him, he knows what he wants to say. “We’re both old enough now to know how utterly overwhelmed you were, everything you were up against. And I’ll never forget that to you, I was the kid who...” Stiles hand shifts nervously against Derek’s arm, squeezes even as he looks away, can’t meet his eyes, “I was just some little shit who disrespected Laura.”

When Stiles dares to look up, Derek looks soft and blank with shock. Before he schools his expression into something unreadable.

“So, if we’re going to do decade old apologies, I never told you how sorry I am for that.”

Derek flounders for a moment before he turns to continue walking and says, more softly than the words would indicate, “It’s ok. You were just some young idiot.”

Stiles hustles to catch up with him, matching his pace easily and saying, “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

Derek glares, but it has no heat. 

“Anything else you want to apologize for? Attempted murder on Lydia? Maybe threatening to rip my throat out?”

“Nope,” Derek says brightly. “I still might make good on that.”

Stiles’ hand flies to his chest in mock-hurt, “You wound me Derek!”

“Not yet I haven’t,” he grumbles, shoving Stiles forward a few steps. Stiles merely laughs and looks back over his shoulder at the more and more familiar sight of Derek’s smile.

The day goes on as planned, with studying and bickering and eventually dinner with the pack. But both Derek and Stiles end up feeling somewhat lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, mistakes of the grammatical and syntactical variety are all mine so please accept my heartfelt “whoops”.


End file.
